Leena Iyer
1
The train slid into the Konkan station just as the sky began to gather weight. Rhea stepped down with her backpack slung across one shoulder, her camera case banging gently against her hip. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and seaweed, as if the land itself was waiting to exhale. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming here—not her friends, not her ex, not even her editor. Gokarna was meant to be anonymous, a soft, green escape with coconut trees swaying and time ticking at its own pace. She hailed a rickshaw and handed the driver a scribbled address on a torn paper, her own handwriting smudged slightly from the Mumbai humidity. The villa she had booked for a week was half an hour away from the beach crowds, tucked behind a palm grove where the road turned to red mud and the sea whispered behind walls of trees. The driver gave her a sideways glance, surprised, but said nothing. Maybe women like her weren’t supposed to travel alone to houses like that. Maybe they weren’t supposed to want solitude, or silence, or freedom.
The villa was old, washed in faded teal paint and guarded by vines that had long claimed the porch railings as their own. A broken wind chime hung above the entrance, clinking gently in the warm breeze. Rhea paid the driver, then walked through the rusty gate, feeling the squish of monsoon-softened earth under her sandals. The key had been left under a flower pot, exactly as the owner had promised over one brief phone call. Inside, the house was a blend of time and memory—curtains that smelled like salt, wooden floors that creaked under the weight of age, and shelves stacked with books that hadn’t been opened in years. It was perfect. She dropped her bags, opened the windows, and let the wind in. Outside, the clouds were bruising purple now, the sea in the distance roaring louder as the first drops of rain hit the tiled roof. She took out her camera and snapped a photo of the doorway, framed in foliage. This was her moment of pause, before the storm, before whatever this week would bring.
She didn’t notice him until dusk. She had gone to the edge of the cliff path behind the villa, barefoot, her dress clinging to her legs in the rain. That’s when she saw him—tall, leaning against a wooden post, watching the horizon with arms folded and eyes narrowed. He didn’t look like a tourist, or even someone who noticed strangers. His beard was rain-damp, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, and when he glanced at her, there was no surprise in his gaze—only a quiet acknowledgment, as though he had expected someone to come. She nodded, unsure if she should say something, but he only turned and walked away toward the trees. No words. Just presence. Just that moment, soaked in sea mist and curiosity. And somehow, Rhea felt it—something had begun.
2
The rain had not stopped through the night. It drummed gently on the sloping tiled roof, a lullaby and a warning all at once. Rhea woke before dawn, the sky outside still shrouded in a thick curtain of mist. The ocean, though invisible, made itself known with every crashing wave that echoed up the cliffside. Wrapped in a shawl, she stepped into the front verandah, barefoot, clutching a cup of black coffee. The villa felt alive—like it breathed with the monsoon, like it had absorbed years of solitude and whispered stories from the wind. She stared at the rain-soaked garden, at the crooked coconut trees, at the faraway shimmer of the sea when the clouds thinned for a second. Her phone had no signal. No messages. No deadlines. Just silence, interrupted only by the occasional chirp of a stubborn bird or the hiss of the rain bouncing off leaves. And she welcomed it. This wasn’t escape—it was reclamation.
Later that morning, she wandered through the house with her camera, photographing forgotten corners: a cracked porcelain vase, a wooden trunk with faded brass handles, a mirror speckled with black time stains. In the library, she found an old marine map framed on the wall, Gokarna’s coastline sketched in thin blue veins like a secret waiting to be discovered. She wondered if the man from the cliff—tall and unreadable—was a local fisherman or perhaps a retreating tourist who hadn’t quite left. There was something in his eyes that hadn’t felt foreign though. Something rooted. She thought about following the path he had taken, into the woods behind the villa, but instead, she lingered on the edge of the property, where the rain had carved shallow streams into the red earth. Her fingertips brushed a hibiscus in bloom, its scarlet petals damp, trembling in the wind. It reminded her of the stories her grandmother told—about spirits that lived in flowers, and houses that watched the people inside them.
That afternoon, the electricity flickered and went out. The villa dimmed into a golden hush. Rhea lit two candles and placed one in the hallway, the other in the kitchen. She cooked rice and lentils slowly on the old gas stove, feeling strangely domestic in a space that didn’t belong to her. Just as she was about to sit by the window with her meal, she heard footsteps on gravel. She froze. Then a soft knock. She opened the door to find him—soaked, silent, holding a wrapped banana leaf parcel and a flashlight. “No power,” he said, voice low but clear. “Thought you might need dinner.” She stepped aside, unsure whether to speak or just listen. He didn’t enter, just handed her the parcel and smiled—just a flicker—and turned to go. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m Rhea.” He paused. “Aarav,” he replied, before disappearing back into the monsoon-dark woods.
3
The next morning brought no sun, only a softer shade of grey and the smell of the sea carried on the wind. Rhea stood before the mirror in the villa’s small bathroom, combing out the knots in her damp hair. The salty air had begun to change its texture—wilder, fuller, untamed like the thoughts swirling inside her. She hadn’t dreamed of Mumbai all night, hadn’t seen her ex’s face or remembered the claustrophobic walls of their high-rise apartment. Here, she was beginning to breathe differently. She wore a loose white kurta over shorts and stepped out into the garden barefoot again, camera swinging from her shoulder, drawn by the sound of waves more urgent than yesterday. The rain had paused, just long enough to allow a thin light through the clouds. She followed the same path toward the cliff’s edge, wondering if she would see Aarav again. She wasn’t sure why she cared. Maybe it was the silence in him that echoed hers. Maybe it was the way he stood still, as if he knew something about this place that even the air respected.
The sea had risen overnight. It crashed against the rocks far below, spraying mist into the cliffside ferns. She knelt near the edge, careful not to slip, and began capturing frames—twisting trees, water droplets clinging to wild grass, a crow mid-flight against the distant curve of the coast. Then she heard footsteps again. She didn’t turn immediately, as though part of her had expected him to return. “You like the sound it makes when it’s angry?” Aarav’s voice broke through gently. She looked over her shoulder to see him standing a few feet behind, wearing the same rolled-sleeve shirt, a fresh scrape on his forearm. “It’s honest,” she replied, surprised at her own words. He nodded, moving beside her, crouching without speaking more. They sat like that for minutes—two strangers sharing silence that didn’t feel empty. She noticed the mud caked near his boots, the salt in his stubble, the way his fingers brushed aside a leaf like it mattered. “You live nearby?” she asked after a while. “Past the ridge,” he said. “Marine lab. Or what’s left of it during monsoon.” When she asked what he studied, he said, “Coral. Breathing stones.” She smiled. He didn’t.
Later, as the wind picked up and rain returned in slanted sheets, he led her to a hidden trail back through the trees. Rhea slipped once on a mossy patch, and without thinking, Aarav caught her by the wrist. His grip was firm, warm, lingering just long enough to make her heart race. They said little on the way back, but when they reached her gate, she turned to him with something close to gratitude and confusion. “Do you always wander into strangers’ mornings?” she asked, half-teasing. He looked at her, really looked, and said, “Only when they carry storms in their eyes.” Then he left, again without waiting for a reply, vanishing down the muddy path like a secret the rain was eager to keep.
4
That evening, the rain returned with a fury that rattled the window panes and made the coconut trees moan like old souls in pain. Rhea lit three candles this time—one in the hallway, one on the bedside table, and one on the kitchen shelf—casting trembling shadows that danced along the wooden walls. She wrapped herself in a shawl and opened the verandah door, stepping out to watch the storm unfold. The wind tugged at her kurta, the hem soaked instantly, but she didn’t move. The sky was a sheet of liquid silver, and lightning cracked open its chest like a breathless scream. The villa felt more alive in the storm, like it had been built not to shelter from the chaos but to feel it deeply, like a heartbeat. Rhea thought of Aarav’s hand on her wrist, the warmth of it despite the cold rain, the way his eyes never wavered even when the world did. Her own body felt on edge—not with fear, but with an ache she hadn’t let herself feel in months. She didn’t miss the man she had left. She missed being touched with meaning.
The knock came as thunder rolled over the hills. One knock—soft, deliberate, familiar. Aarav stood at the door, water running from his hair, breath fogging the air between them. He didn’t wait to be invited. He stepped in, shook off the rain from his shoulders, and looked around the dim, candlelit space like he’d been here before. Rhea handed him a towel silently. “I was halfway home and the storm turned,” he said, placing his flashlight on the table. “I figured this was closer.” She nodded. “It’s okay.” They stood in the narrow space between the kitchen and the living room, the candle casting flickers over his face, catching the edge of his jaw, the shadow under his collarbone. “Are you always this calm in a storm?” she asked. “Only on the outside,” he said, his voice low, almost lost beneath the wind. And then the silence between them stretched—not empty, but charged, humming like a taut wire strung between two thoughts that hadn’t yet become actions. She reached for the kettle, hands trembling just enough to give herself away. He noticed, but said nothing.
They sat cross-legged on the floor, sipping hot tea in the glow of flickering candlelight. Rain crashed against the roof above them like waves against rock. Their knees touched by accident, or maybe not. Her shawl slipped from her shoulder. He didn’t look away. Something unspoken passed between them—a pause, a permission, a pull. She leaned first. He met her halfway. The kiss was quiet thunder—slow, certain, breathless. Not desperate. Not rushed. His fingers brushed her cheek, her waist, then her wrist—the same place he had caught her that morning. She felt it in her spine, the heat of him, the raw edge of closeness. Outside, the storm raged louder, but inside, there was only skin and breath and the ache of something long buried now rising to the surface. When they pulled away, neither spoke. They just breathed, as if learning to again. As if the thunder had touched them both, and left something behind.
5
The power cut lingered into the night, and the villa surrendered to complete darkness except for the candles now melted low in their holders. Rhea and Aarav sat on the floor, the scent of wet earth creeping in through the open windows, mingling with the lingering warmth of their kiss. She hadn’t expected him to stay. He hadn’t expected to want to. Yet neither moved. Outside, the storm had quieted into a steady whisper of rain, as though nature itself had paused to watch what would unfold within these wooden walls. Aarav leaned back against the pillar, his eyes unreadable in the dimness, his voice a slow vibration when he spoke. “When I was younger, I used to watch the sea at night and wonder how deep silence could go.” Rhea glanced at him, feeling the pull of those words more than she could explain. “And now?” she asked. He looked at her, his gaze steady. “Now I think silence is just a place we enter when we’re ready to hear ourselves.” She didn’t reply. She only leaned closer, drawn to the gravity between them.
The mattress was old but soft, spread with fresh white sheets she had unpacked just the day before. Rhea lit a new candle beside the bed and turned to him, her shawl still loose around her shoulders. “You can stay,” she said quietly, not asking, not suggesting—just saying it aloud because it was already true. Aarav stepped forward slowly, every movement deliberate, as if any sudden act might break the fragile magic the storm had stitched between them. He removed his damp shirt, laid it across the chair, then turned back toward her. Candlelight kissed the curve of his chest, the thin line of scar that ran from shoulder to collarbone, the salt of the sea still clinging to his skin. Rhea reached for his hand and guided him to the bed, their fingers entwining like they had done it before in another life, another rain. No words followed. There was no need. He kissed her again—less tentative now, deeper, more certain. Her breath caught as his lips moved to her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. Her hands traced his spine, memorizing the ridges, the warmth, the reality of him.
Time melted in that night, their bodies slow and deliberate, exploring one another with the hunger of people who had forgotten what it meant to be truly seen. The candle burned low, shadows dancing over bare skin, over breathless pauses and gasps that spoke of release and reclamation. Rhea felt herself open, not just in body but in memory and longing—like every moment of loneliness she had endured was folding into this closeness, this sudden heat that felt both sacred and wild. When they finally lay still, skin against skin, the rain outside softened into a lullaby again. Aarav brushed a strand of wet hair from her cheek, whispered something too quiet to catch, and closed his eyes. Rhea watched him for a long time, her heartbeat steady for the first time in months. In the darkness, with the world shut out and the storm behind them, she finally felt like she had come home.
6
The morning light was pale and uncertain, filtered through drifting mist and the last curtain of rain. Rhea woke to the quiet rhythm of Aarav’s breath beside her, the sheets tangled around their legs, her bare shoulder chilled against the damp air. For a long moment she lay still, watching the ceiling, letting the weight of the night settle into her bones—not with regret, but with a tenderness that made her eyes sting. She reached out, touched the space between his shoulder blades, and felt his breath shift slightly under her fingertips. No words were exchanged. None needed to be. When she rose, she wrapped the shawl around herself and moved through the villa like a ghost returned to her own body. In the kitchen, she boiled water, her hands steady now, her thoughts not racing for once. The storm had passed. Outside, the garden sparkled—leaves slick with rain, soil darker than before, and in the distance, the sea calmer, more forgiving. She sipped her tea and wondered how long Aarav would stay, or if staying was even something either of them truly understood.
He emerged just after sunrise, hair still damp, shirt in his hand, eyes soft with a silence she now recognized as thought rather than distance. “Found something,” he said, holding up a bundle of faded red cloth. “Near the edge of the cliff.” She stepped forward and touched the scarf—it was hers. She had worn it two days ago, loosely tied to her bag. “Must have blown off,” she murmured. But there was something about the way he held it, the way it had found its way back to her through him, that felt more deliberate than chance. He handed it to her and watched her fold it carefully. “I didn’t want to wake you,” she said. “You didn’t,” he replied. “I just didn’t want to move.” They sat again on the porch, this time not avoiding each other’s gaze. There was a question hovering in the air—what now?—but neither asked it. Instead, they spoke of small things. Coral bleaching near the coast. The names of the birds that had returned after the rain. A book left behind by the previous tenant. It wasn’t the kind of intimacy forged by urgency. It was the slow, quiet tether of two people choosing to stay a little longer.
By midday, they had walked down to the hidden stretch of beach below the cliff—a narrow path winding through mossy rocks and banana trees. The sand was damp but golden, the tide pulling back with a gentleness that matched the hush between them. Rhea stepped into the water, let it curl around her ankles, her red scarf now tied around her neck, fluttering in the salty breeze. Aarav watched her from a distance, not intruding, just existing beside her. “Do you ever get tired of being alone?” she asked suddenly, not turning to face him. “Sometimes,” he replied after a pause. “But loneliness has rules. People don’t.” She smiled faintly, letting the words soak in. Then she turned, walked back to where he stood, and pressed her palm to his chest. “Maybe we rewrite some of those rules.” He looked at her for a long time, then nodded slowly, as if unsure whether he was agreeing with her or surrendering. Either way, when they walked back up the cliff path, they held hands. And this time, she wasn’t the only one trembling.
7
That evening, the sky blushed with a rare saffron hue, the first true sunset since Rhea had arrived. The monsoon had drawn back like a weary animal, and the villa breathed easier under a golden hush. Rhea sat cross-legged on the verandah floor, sketching absent-mindedly in her journal—outlines of waves, silhouettes of coconut trees, and a faint trace of Aarav’s face from memory. Inside, the house smelled of lemon leaves and damp wood, the rooms humming with the warmth of new presence. Aarav hadn’t spoken much all day, though he hadn’t left her side either. He had helped fix the window latch, brewed spiced tea with practiced ease, and nodded as she talked about her old life in Mumbai—about crowded trains, the pressure of deadlines, the loneliness of having someone beside you and still feeling invisible. He listened without interruption, but Rhea could sense something deeper flickering behind his gaze. He had that look—of a man who had loved and lost in a way that never quite healed, of someone who had grown used to carrying silence like armor.
As the last of the light faded, he joined her outside, setting down two cups of tea without a word. She watched him sit with his elbows on his knees, eyes focused somewhere beyond the horizon. “You don’t talk about your past,” she said gently. He didn’t respond at first. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a weathered photograph—creased at the corners, edges smudged. It showed a woman in a saree, standing near a coral tank, smiling without looking at the camera. “Her name was Meera,” he said quietly. “We were engaged. She drowned three years ago during a dive near the coast. A sudden current. No time.” Rhea looked at the photo, then at him, feeling the ache in his words more than the words themselves. “I stayed,” he continued. “Moved into the lab quarters. Kept going through the motions—coral mapping, water testing. Talking to waves instead of people.” He smiled faintly, bitterly. “People stopped asking after a while. And I didn’t mind.” Rhea reached out and took the photo gently, running her fingers over the faded image. “You never talk about her?” she asked. “Not until now,” he whispered.
They sat in silence after that, but it was a different kind of silence—one shared, not endured. Rhea leaned her head on his shoulder, and he didn’t flinch. He placed the photo back into his pocket and wrapped his arm around her, not tightly, just enough. The wind had lost its edge, and in its place came the soft lull of frogs in the distance, the occasional chirp of a night bird. “Thank you,” she said. “For what?” he asked. “For letting me in,” she replied. Aarav turned to look at her, and something shifted in his eyes—something less guarded, more real. He kissed her temple slowly, gently, with the reverence of a man remembering how to feel without fear. And for the first time since she arrived, Rhea didn’t just feel welcome in the villa—she felt necessary. Not as a visitor, not as a pause in someone else’s pain, but as a chapter he didn’t think he’d allow himself to write again.
8
The next morning arrived with startling clarity—blue skies stretched wide above the villa, clouds retreating like secrets revealed. Rhea stood by the window of the bedroom, the cotton curtain brushing her arms as the breeze poured in. The storm had finally left, but its memory still clung to the walls, to the bedsheets, to the warm imprint of Aarav beside her. He was still asleep, one arm across the pillow where her head had rested through the night. She watched him for a long time—his face softer in sleep, the lines on his forehead eased, the quiet rhythm of his breath like music she had come to know. In that moment, she realized something had shifted, not just around her, but within her. This place, this man, this silence—they were no longer passing moments. They had become a part of her story, even if she didn’t yet know how it would end. She pulled on a cotton dress, tied her hair into a loose bun, and padded barefoot into the study with her camera, driven by a sudden urge to capture something she couldn’t name.
She hadn’t noticed the drawer before. It was built into the old writing desk tucked in the corner of the study, half-hidden beneath a stack of tide maps and coral diagrams. The drawer creaked open with resistance, as if reluctant to give up what it held. Inside was a neat pile of photographs—some of marine life, some of the coastline—but in the middle was one that stopped her breath. It was her. Or at least it looked like her. Same eyes, same arch of the brow, same way the lips curled in half-smile. The woman in the photo was standing near the same villa porch, wearing a cotton red scarf around her neck, her hair windblown, her face glowing in a sunset light that seemed almost sacred. Rhea’s fingers trembled. She turned the photograph over. One word was scribbled on the back in fading ink: Devika. Beneath it, a date—twenty-two years ago. The year Rhea was born. Confused, breath caught between panic and disbelief, she stared at the photo again. It wasn’t just resemblance. It was uncanny. Like a mirror held up to the past, or a memory passed down through blood.
Aarav was standing behind her before she heard him. “You found it,” he said softly. She turned, eyes wide, photograph still in hand. “Who was she?” He stepped forward, face unreadable, voice low. “Devika was Meera’s older sister. She lived here. Died young. No one ever really told us how—just a cliff fall, they said. But my father kept this photograph. He always said she had a restless soul. And when I saw you for the first time…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Rhea felt her breath shorten. “You think I look like her.” He nodded slowly. “It’s more than that. The way you move. The scarf. Even the way you laugh. It’s like she’s come back somehow, through you.” Rhea stared at the photo, the weight of coincidence pressing heavy on her chest. But it didn’t feel sinister. It felt like the universe had chosen to circle back. She stepped forward, placed the photograph on the table, and looked up at him. “Then maybe this time, she gets to finish what she started.” And as Aarav reached for her hand, something passed between them—not fear, not confusion, but a quiet surrender to a fate that had been waiting in the shadows, patient as the sea.
9
The wind had returned by afternoon, not as violent as before but with a strange urgency that curled around the villa like a warning. Rhea stood at the edge of the cliff, the red scarf knotted tightly at her neck, eyes scanning the endless line where the sea kissed the sky. Behind her, the villa rested in a golden hush, but within her, a storm had begun to churn again. Devika. The name lingered like a distant bell in her head. Since finding the photograph, something had changed in how she felt the air, how her skin responded to the wind, how her dreams pulsed with strange familiarity—cliff edges, candlelight, the sensation of falling. It was as if memory was rising from her blood, not her mind. Aarav stood a few feet behind, watching her with a quiet tension. “You don’t have to carry someone else’s ending,” he said, his voice almost swallowed by the wind. “I know,” she replied, still staring at the sea. “But what if it was mine once too?” The cliff below had no railing, only wild grass and the whisper of old stories. She took a step closer, just to see better. Aarav moved forward instinctively, hand reaching out—not to stop her, but to tether her.
Later that evening, they sat in the villa’s main room, the candles flickering higher than usual as the wind pressed against the window panes like something trying to come in. Aarav brought out a small wooden box, weathered and sealed with a rusted clasp. “It belonged to her,” he said. “Devika. It was found at the base of the cliff, weeks after…” His words trailed off. Rhea opened it slowly. Inside were fragments—a shell necklace, a pressed hibiscus, a torn page from a diary. The writing was delicate and slanted, almost hesitant: Sometimes I dream of falling, and it feels like flying until the end. Rhea touched the ink with trembling fingers, her heartbeat a rapid thrum. “She wasn’t running,” she whispered. “She was releasing.” Aarav nodded, eyes dark with memory. “They called it an accident. But she left signs. And Meera—she tried to understand, tried to live differently, but she never spoke of it aloud.” Rhea looked up at him, her voice steady now. “And now you’re here, carrying both.” He didn’t deny it. He only leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently to hers. In that moment, they were not two people—they were echoes stitched together by time, love, and unfinished songs.
That night, the storm finally broke again, sudden and wild. Rain slammed against the villa, the wind howled like mourning, and the sea roared as if demanding to be heard. Rhea stood in the doorway, soaked within seconds, the red scarf billowing like a flame. Aarav pulled her back inside, arms around her, his voice raised over the wind. “Don’t go near the cliff again,” he said. “Promise me.” She nodded, burying her face into his chest, her body trembling not from cold but from a knowing that couldn’t be named. The storm was Devika’s. Or maybe it was hers. Either way, it passed by dawn, leaving the villa breathless, the world washed clean, and two souls tangled in a story that had waited decades to find its ending.
10
The morning after the storm, the world outside the villa glistened as though dipped in gold. Dew clung to every leaf, the earth steamed gently beneath the rising sun, and the sea, for the first time in days, lay flat and shimmering like silk. Rhea awoke to light warming her bare shoulder, the sheets tangled at her waist, Aarav’s hand resting softly on her hip. She lay still, eyes open, heart steady. Everything that had happened—the storm, the photograph, the memory of Devika—was real, yet it didn’t weigh on her. It felt like closure, like exhaling after years of holding breath she hadn’t known she carried. When she finally rose, Aarav stirred but didn’t speak, only watched her with the kind of stillness that needed no words. She stepped onto the verandah barefoot, her red scarf wrapped loosely around her wrist now, no longer a tether, but a thread of something remembered and released. The villa stood brighter today, less haunted, more lived-in. As if it too had shed something heavy during the night.
They spent the day in slow motion, moving through the house like caretakers of memory rather than guests of grief. Rhea cleaned the study, returning the old photos to their drawer with gentle fingers, while Aarav tended to the garden, cutting back the vines that had choked the stone path for years. They paused often—to sip water, to look at the sky, to stand close without speaking. By afternoon, they walked hand in hand to the beach again, where the tide had pulled back farther than before, revealing smooth stones and driftwood. Rhea waded into the water, letting it lap against her knees, sunlight painting her skin with shimmering gold. Aarav watched from the shore, smiling quietly as she turned toward him, arms raised, face lifted to the sky. She laughed—not the careful laugh of someone healing, but the full-bodied sound of someone who had remembered joy. When she returned to him, dripping and breathless, he wrapped a towel around her and kissed her forehead. “You look like you belong to this place now,” he said. “Maybe I always did,” she replied, her voice calm, assured.
That evening, they sat together on the roof of the villa, the sea stretching endlessly before them, stars beginning to pierce the soft blue of twilight. Rhea leaned into his side, her head against his shoulder, the red scarf now tied to the railing, fluttering gently in the wind. “Will you stay?” Aarav asked, not needing a promise, only a truth. She took a long breath, feeling the quiet around them settle into her bones. “For now,” she said, “and maybe longer. Not because I’m lost. But because I’ve arrived.” He kissed her slowly, not out of urgency but reverence, as if honoring the journey that had brought them both here—through silence, through storms, through shadows of other lives. As night fell, the villa stood in stillness, no longer just a shelter from the rain, but a home for something new—love not born of escape, but of choosing to stay. And somewhere beyond the waves, the past finally slept, leaving only the sound of the sea, the scent of salt, and sunlight drying slowly on her skin.
End
