Three Things by the Sea
Meredith arrived at the seaside house with a single suitcase. Inside were just three things: her father’s old jumper, still carrying the faint scent of laundry soap and memory; an undeveloped film roll with nine exposures left, labelled “for later”; and a letter. Sealed. Not in her handwriting. A thick envelope with a blue stripe along the edge, like an unfamiliar inflection in a familiar sentence.
The house was rented—simple, creaky, peeling at the edges. A lopsided awning, the damp smell of wood, and a silence so deep not even the radio could puncture it. Everything here was foreign, yet oddly honest. No tourists, no commotion—just February, salt-chilled air, and long pauses. The house seemed to stay quiet with her, never intruding, just present. Like someone who had no advice to give, only a shoulder.
After her mother’s funeral, Meredith couldn’t bear to stay in the flat where she’d grown up. Every object there screamed at her—the knitted throw, the saucepans, the light switch, even the morning glow. Everything hummed with her mother’s voice. Everything rang with absence. So Meredith left—not to escape, but to disappear for a while, just long enough not to lose herself entirely.
The letter had been kept in an old music box, handed to her by her mother just before the end. “Open it when you’re ready,” she’d said, looking straight at her. No pleas, no guilt—just a gaze heavy with meaning. Meredith couldn’t. Not at first. Not the next day, not even a week later. She kept the envelope close—picked it up, put it down. As if the weight of the paper might signal when “ready” would come.
The sea wasn’t soothing. It battered the shore relentlessly, almost angrily. Roared like a question with no answer. Meredith walked along the water’s edge—her coat grew damp, her boots crunched over pebbles, salt clung to her skin. She wanted to be hollow. To not think, not feel. Just walk. Until her heart quietened.
On the third day, she picked up the old camera. Slowly, as if for the first time. Adjusted the lens like she was learning to live all over again. Took eight shots: jagged rocks, broken glass, a lone welly, her own reflection in a shop window—tangled hair, weary eyes. The ninth exposure remained untouched. She aimed at the sea—then lowered the camera. Not yet.
That evening, she washed the jumper. The same one—rough, thick, hers. While the kettle hissed on the stove, she stood in the kitchen, listening to the creak of the walls and the loneliness pooling around her. And then—she moved. Took the letter. Tore the edge. The paper cracked like ice underfoot.
“Meredith. If you’re reading this, I’ve finally found the courage. You always said you didn’t want to know who your father was. But I’m leaving you the choice. Inside is a name and number. He never knew about you. But you have the right. I think—I hope—you’ll understand why, now. Even if you go no further.
With love, Mum.”
A phone number. A name. Just one line. Yet it contained an entire other world, foreign and familiar all at once. A world of words, glances, footsteps she’d never known. Everything was possible now. And everything was terrifying.
Meredith sat by the window until long after dark. Her tea grew cold. Snow drifted onto the sand, as if trying to hush the sea. But the waves kept roaring. Loud. Defiant. Like the voice inside her that wouldn’t quieten.
She didn’t call. Not because she was afraid. Because she wasn’t ready to hear.
But in the morning, she took the ninth shot. Herself. In the jumper. The letter in hand. The light was soft, as if the world knew—this mattered. She looked into the lens not to remember, but to let go.
Then she walked out to the sea. No hiding this time. The wind lashed at 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 comes next.
