After raining all day, the seaside on the next day is particularly refreshing and pleasant.
Both the sky and the sea are in a deep azure blue, the sea breeze holds a fishy sweetness, and the waves are mighty.
White wave crests roll up the sky full of mist and hit one in the face.
The beach teems with conches and shells, the sand is soft, leaving a footprint with each step.
Chale Cheney's little hands are sliding across Sylvan Cheney's phone.
Sylvan sits on the couch in the Cheney Residence, gazing at the laptop screen, his expression is aloof.
His slender fingers occasionally striking the keys, his incisive eyes hold a surging light.
Now and then, Chale propped his head up, lay belly down on the chair, or looked at Sylvan.
The little fellow was wearing a clean white sweater, his serious expression was very similar to Sylvan's.
Every gaze, every move, it is as if they were cut from the same mold.
Chale strains his neck to look at Sylvan's WeChat.
He saw Jasmine Yale!
