Beachcomber by Marion Bowler

The curtains moved lazily in the breeze from the open window, a sinuous wave of voile. The scent of the sea on the air, the faint sound of waves rolling in the distance.

She had loved this room, chosen every item in it. Selected them because they called to her in some way. The room was a museum to her taste, her whimsy.

The seascape on the chimney breast, a reflection of the view, if you stood at just the right angle at the window, a local artist. Sea glass scavenged from the shore, collected over years and arranged in artful piles on bookshelf, windowsill and desk.

Driftwood in the firebasket, mismatched tiles in the surround sifted from skips. Mantle from a salvage yard, companion set from the flea market, last Sunday of the month.

Everything in the room had a life before, a life before it was brought to this room and given a new place, a new purpose. Now she was gone and with her, the room had lost its purpose. The things would move on, be lost, buried or displayed elsewhere, but never in the same way. Never the same whole that they had made here.

A life collected, a life disassembled.

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