The gentle lapping of the loch against the wooden hull had become a lament to him.
It was difficult to tell where the faded brown of the crinkled envelopes ended and the man's hands began. The perfume, though faint from years, lingered even yet on the cherished, worn pages. There was a quiet splash as the string-tied bundle was given to the depths; the ripples died swiftly.
- - -
The sun is low, and its rosy light fractures into brilliance on the dancing water with a distant, still figure in a boat the only silhouette. The hours pass unmeasured into night.