A Painted House
Mykola stood next to the low stone wall, looking down over the valley to the inlet. The air where they stood was warm and humid but made bearable by the breeze blowing softly through the trees. Below them the water glistened in the early morning light and the waves moved in their unending ballet of push and pull, eating away at the land in tiny bites. His friend stood next to him, a tall, broad-shouldered man with skin so dark it fairly glowed in the relentless Caribbean sun. He should have felt sad. Lord knew he had reason, but standing here, he finally understood what Andriy said before he left two weeks ago.
