In the closet of my rented beach house, I found a wood box. There were brownish palms and a yellowish shore drawn on the top of it under a layer of dust.
When I opened it, a smell of sea came from the inside. There were two pictures in there.
One of the pictures was black and white and featured a couple. It was their wedding day and they were smiling at me, their unknown faces enlivened by the light that was coming from the tall window behind them. The countryside could be seen beyond the window. The dark shades of the trees invaded the sky fading to gray.
The fishtail of her dress was spreading on the floor, in front of her, like a thin layer of ice.
He was wearing a well-cut tuxedo and the light coming from the window seemed to bring sheer to the cloth. His eyes penetrated mine as if he knew who I was. Her eyes looked a bit aloof. Her hands were gripping the bouquet tightly, the petals so well- cared that they seemed to be made of wax.
The other picture was colored and featured a woman in her twenties; her eyes were hidden behind big sunglasses which design dated back from the seventies. She was at a balcony. She was wearing a red bikini and a pink scarf on her head. The sunlight behind her gave some nostalgic look to the brown locks of her hair and to the washed-out colors of the cars parked in front of the beach.
I stayed there, staring at the pictures, overwhelmed by the smell of salt and old paper. I wanted to write those people stories, knew who they were and what was made of them. But there were no names, no words written behind the pictures. It was only me and three characters.
And then, I decided to let my imagination fly. I just looked at the shore and listened to stories told by the sea.