Valkyrie

It's a cloudy morning. The wind pushes heavy gray clouds across the sky. Valkyrie walks along a narrow, rocky path that descends from the hill directly to the sea. The soles of her heavy boots crunch on the wet sand and pebbles. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her black leather jacket, and the chain on her ripped jeans jingles softly with each step.

She doesn't know where she's going. She simply followed this strange feeling. For months, she searched for this face in every port, in every dream. And now the path leads her to the shore.

In the distance, on the gray rocks at the water's edge, a frail figure sits with her back to the trail. Her thick black curls are fluttering in the wind, and drops of seawater are visible on her white sports T-shirt with the number "93." The girl bends down, picks up a flat stone, and tosses it across the gray surface of the sea. The stone bounces, leaving ripples.

Valkyrie freezes. She stands on the path, unable to take a step. Her breath hitches. Her gaze is fixed on this figure, on how she bends down to pick up another stone, how she swings, how she freezes, looking at the water. Valkyrie clenches her fists in her pockets, trying to stop her fingers from trembling.

She doesn't fit. Not yet. She just stands there and watches the sea roar, the wind whip the waves, the girl throwing stones into the water, as if trying to reach someone on the other side of the horizon. Valkyrie feels something warm and painful spreading in her chest. She's found her. Finally, she's found her.