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The sky is sharp and sears his eyes, the sea a patchwork of blades. Saturated colors throb in his veins.
And the quiet… Ed grew up near the docks, spent his life in crowded ships and bustling ports. He has no context for silence this crushing. His own cries die as they leave his throat.
He can look into the cabin like he's watching a play. Sees Izzy move in, take charge. Every so often Izzy squints at the painting, almost like he can see Ed. Then he shrugs and walks away.
In the shadow of the lighthouse, Ed waits.