Three Things by the Sea
Melissa arrived at the seaside cottage with a single suitcase. Inside were only three things: her father’s old jumper that still smelled of laundry soap and memory, an undeveloped roll of film marked *”for later”*, and a letter. Sealed. Not in her handwriting. A thick envelope with a blue border, like a stranger’s voice in a familiar sentence.
The cottage was rented—plain, creaky, peeling paint. A slanting porch, the damp scent of wood, and a silence unbroken even by the radio. Everything here was foreign, yet oddly honest. No tourists, no bustle—just February, salt air, and long pauses. The house seemed to keep quiet with her—never intruding, just there. Like someone with no advice to give but an open shoulder.
After her mother’s funeral, Melissa couldn’t stay in the flat they’d shared. Every object there screamed at her—the throw blanket, the saucepan, the light switch, even the morning sunbeam. All of it hummed with her mother’s voice. All of it rang with absence. So Melissa left—not to run, but to vanish for a while, before she lost herself completely.
The letter had been in an aged wooden box, handed to her by her mother just before the end. *”Open it when you’re ready,”* she’d said, her gaze steady. No pleas, no guilt—just eyes full of meaning. Melissa couldn’t. Not then. Not the next day, nor the week after. She kept the envelope close—picked it up, put it down. As if the weight of the paper would tell her when *”ready”* had come.
The sea didn’t soothe. It battered the shore, relentless, almost angry. Roaring like a question with no answer. Melissa paced the water’s edge—her coat damp, her boots crunching, salt clinging to her skin. She wanted to be hollow—no thoughts, no feelings. Just walking. Until her heart quieted.
On the third day, she lifted the old camera. Slowly, as if for the first time. Adjusted the lens like she was learning to breathe again. She took eight shots: pebbles, sea glass, a lone boot, her own reflection in a cafe window—messy hair, exhausted eyes. The ninth frame stayed empty. She aimed at the waves—then lowered it. Not yet.
That evening, she washed the jumper. The same one—rough, heavy, achingly familiar. While the kettle boiled, she stood in the kitchen, listening to the cottage creak and her loneliness pooling around her. Then—suddenly—she reached for the letter. Tore the edge. The paper split with a sound like ice cracking underfoot.
*”Melissa. If you’re reading this, it means I finally found the courage. You always said you didn’t want to know about your father. But I’m leaving you the choice. Inside this envelope—his details. He never knew about you. But you deserve to. I believe you’ll know why, when you’re ready. Even if you go no further.*
*With love. Mum.”*
A phone number. A name. Just a single line. But in it—another world. Familiar and strange at once. A world of words, glances, footsteps she’d never known. Suddenly, everything was possible. And everything—terrifying.
Melissa sat by the window until nightfall. Her tea went cold. Snow drifted onto the sand, as if trying to hush the sea. But the waves kept crashing. Loud. Defiant. Like the voice inside her that wouldn’t quiet.
She didn’t call. Not because she was afraid. Because she wasn’t ready to hear.
But in the morning, she took the ninth photo. Herself. In the jumper. Holding the letter. The light was gentle, as if the world understood—this moment mattered. She looked into the lens—not to remember. To let go.
Then she walked to the sea. No longer hiding. Wind lashed her face, slipped under her collar. But she kept going. Leaving footprints. Heavy. Real. Hers.
Sometimes three things are all you need to know: You’re here. You’re alive. And you get to choose what happens next.
