My attempt to keep committed to a story a month–this is a short 3 paragraph story.
Thorstein Strands was a borough of Tasnicaport to the northern coast. If someone asked the old toffee-colored moogle who ran the bait shack on the pier, he’d say it was a suburb of Tasnicaport. In the old creature’s youth, when he had spent days idle on the shores, there were still open fields and the suburban homes were fresh and modern. Now, as the elder moogle sat on a gnarled wooden bench at the end of the pier, much of the open space had been replaced with apartment complexes and luxury condominiums. His neighbors in the old neighborhood had either passed on been replaced by some of the elites of Tasnica proper.
The night air was salty and a summertime warm breeze blew in from the north. The locals referred to it as the Kakkaras, as a superstition persisted that the air carried with it sands from the northern deserts across the sea. Another legend rang true in the elder’s mind–on nights like these when the sun seemed to linger just a little too long, and the winds blew a fragrance from the northern seas, there could be seen a figure riding the waves at night.
The bait shopkeeper’s eyelids grew heavy as he began to nod off. Yawning, he stood up from the bench and looked out across the sea before turning around and making the late-night trek back to his home. There would be no ghost tonight. It wasn’t really something he was looking for, but it had become his evening ritual to close shop and wait a few minutes longer as the sunset to see if his phantasmic neighbor would say hello. But as the winds started to turn direction and grew cold, tonight would not be the case.