He wakes up in the small twilight hours, where there is no familiar shouting of fishermen bring in the daily haul of fish or the laughs of children drifting in through the window of his little hut by the shore. Even the crash and hiss of waves that has been a constant background noise all his life can no longer bring any relief to him anymore. Nothing can bring him any comfort when he wakes up from nightmares wherein his hands are covered in another’s blood and dull grey eyes stare up at him underneath from waves that crash over jagged rocks and the echo of the tide makes it way over the serrated edges of the rocks and into his ears as whispered words of love then into shouting and finally into violent sobbing and then there are just screams, screams and screams until his voice turns hoarse and there’s a soothing voice next to his ears and soft arms his own arms covered with copper lines.

But home isn't home anymore.