Lyra

Walking down the beach together, they found a guitar near the big fire pit from the night before.
     “Somebody told me you could play,” she said to Hermes.
     “I used to,” he said.
     But he knew it would suck out here in the sun, with the surf muffling the sound, like the lights from the pier that wash out the stars, the same old songs that can still draw us all to the fire, because they sound better there, protected there, within a tight circle of souls.
     “We’d better take this back,” said Hermes. “Somebody’s probably looking for it.”