mwestbelle

Their lives become a series of ships and stories. Travels (as much in the night as possible) to France, Spain, Britain, even down to the wilds of Africa. They learn, moving through the world with a practiced grace, never truly connecting, always sliding along. There's always another ship, another crew, another ocean breeze to take them somewhere they've never seen. But after nearly a century of travel, their hearts yearn once more for the sunny countryside of Italy.

Mikey stands on the deck of the ship, near the prow. The moon is bright above them, and the wind ruffles through his hair. One hundred years of travel, and he is still a youth of fourteen. The only thing that's aged are his eyes, though he sometimes hides those behind spectacle frames (these, he knows, are what he needed as a human child, and it gives him some strange comfort to wear them now). He remembers Milan, if only vaguely. He was very young when the family stopped here, to dine with friends and attend the parties that must be attended, and that was over a century ago. All of it--family, friends, and parties--have turned to dust by now. He thumbs his spectacles up his nose, mildly worried that they'll slide off and into the night-black ocean.