During the evening, when the weather held off, after eating a solitary meal in his flat, Mitchell would walk along the coastline. These walks felt idle and aimless, often leading to nothing more than a different point along the sea’s edge, but his thoughts were relaxed, and he felt, actually, content. Prison now behind him. A job and a home. And friends, if you could call them that, or at least people with whom he could measure out the time. Hopper, Tudor, Hannah, Dragan: all of them had a more ambivalent relationship with this place, it was true. Either they wanted to remake the Court, or they imagined it to be a portal to somewhere else. Still, Mitchell shared one thing with them. He knew that his time here had been accidental, and it would be similarly temporary. Like them, he was a castaway on an island, which was not an island.
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