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once, cyrus would have just come here for the image of the ocean.
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not to paint it- not when that's been done a million times before he was born and will be done a million times after he's gone- but to just watch. to see if anything strikes him as inspiration.
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in another world, he could have been more certain that's why he's here now. the truth of it is that he couldn't sleep, and, in a region like this, he's sure it's the least worrying thing he could do. he doubts- or hopes- that he isn't the type to bring concern, and it's partially confirmed when he makes it to the beach without too much issue.
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there's someone else there, on the docks. at first, his instinct is to ignore her, even if he keeps a partial eye on her just because of the docks, of the crashing water below, and of the way she doesn't seem to notice or care. it isn't- shouldn't be- his problem, and that's what he keeps telling himself.
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until he looks up and she's gone.
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any semblence of this isn't my problem is replaced just as quickly with the bone-chilling alarm of holy shit did i just witness someone drown, and cyrus, despite not knowing what he'd actually do, found himself scrambling towards the docks before his brain could even halfway catch up and remind him that this was a horrible idea.
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"hello?" he doesn't know why he asks anything instead of just diving right in, truthfully. maybe it's some idealized thought that this stranger would have the strength to answer- because, with the churning tide and the darkness of the water, he can't see as well as he would like.

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