On Chesil Beach Instant

The sound of Chesil Beach is unlike any other in England. It is not the soft hiss of sand, but a rhythmic, grinding roar—thousands of tons of flint and chert being dragged back and forth by the Atlantic.

Arthur stood at the crest of the ridge, his boots sinking slightly into the shingle. To his left, the pebbles were the size of peas; miles to his right, at Portland, they would be as large as oranges. He checked his watch. It was July, nearly sixty years since the summer that had defined—and then erased—his future. On Chesil Beach

They walked together for a while, the crunch of their footsteps the only conversation. In 1979, they had stood here as young graduates, full of the radical certainties of the seventies. They had argued about politics, about moving to London, about things that seemed tectonic at the time but now felt as light as sea foam. The sound of Chesil Beach is unlike any other in England

Would you prefer a story focusing on the (Edward and Florence) in an alternate timeline? To his left, the pebbles were the size