There wasn’t much left of Darcy’s old fishing shack after the storm. The hut sat on the edge of the beachhead for as long as I could remember. Darcy was a name my father told me about.
He recalled Darcy as an old man who spent his days fishing the water’s edge, forever happy telling tales of his seafaring days.
A few times over the years I had ventured into Darcy’s old hut. There wasn’t much to suggest it was a home or anything, more a shelter from the weather.
It was one room with a crude table in the centre, a chair that had seen better days, a few shelves nailed to the walls and in one corner a rough old bed. There was a tin framed fireplace and windows with ragged curtains hanging over them.
Now the place lay in ruins. A pile of timber bearing no visible sign of inhabitancy. In the rubble that was once Darcy’s home lay all the secrets and memories of a man who lived long ago, all forgotten but preserved in the timbers now scattered on the ground.