Aside from the Hellmouth, Sunnydale was a place of little consequence. He wondered if she had ever thought about that, how truly ordinary it was. It was a place people lived common lives. They were born, loved and were loved, died, absent any real moments of greatness. Sometimes, when the smallness of it choked him, he went to the shore to think of her. To be surrounded and overwhelmed by innumerable grains of sand, the vastness of the ocean. Those things, incalculable and boundless, felt more emblematic of the magnitude of her sacrifice. And of the size of his grief.