Three Things by the Sea
Emily arrived at the seaside cottage with a single suitcase. Inside were just three things: her father’s old jumper, still smelling of laundry soap and distant memories, an undeveloped roll of film with nine frames left and a label reading “later,” and a letter. Sealed. Not in her handwriting. A thick envelope with a blue stripe along the edge, like a foreign accent in a familiar sentence.
The cottage was rented—simple, creaky, peeling paint. A lopsided porch, the damp scent of wood, and a silence so deep not even the radio dared interrupt. Everything here was unfamiliar, yet strangely honest. No tourists, no bustle—just February, salt-heavy air, and long pauses. The cottage seemed to keep silent with her, neither intruding nor leaving, like a friend who offers no advice, just their presence.
After her mother’s funeral, Emily couldn’t stay in the flat they’d once shared. Every object there screamed—the blanket, the saucepan, the light switch, even the morning sun. Everything hummed with her voice. Everything echoed with absence. So Emily left—not to run, but to vanish for a while, so she wouldn’t lose herself entirely.
The letter sat in an old wooden box her mother had pressed into her hands just before the end. *”Open it when you’re ready,”* she’d said, her gaze steady. No pleas, no reproaches—just a look heavy with meaning. Emily couldn’t. Not at first. Not the next day, not even a week later. She kept the envelope close—picked it up, put it back, as if the weight of the paper might tell her when *”ready”* would come.
The sea didn’t offer comfort. It battered the shore stubbornly, almost angrily, roaring like a question with no answer. Emily wandered the coastline—her coat growing damp, her boots crunching on wet shingle, salt clinging to her skin. She wanted to be hollow—no thoughts, no feelings. Just walking. Until her heartbeat was quiet.
On the third day, she picked up the old camera. Slowly, like it was her first time. Adjusted the lens as if relearning how to live. She took eight shots: jagged rocks, broken glass, a lone boot, her own reflection in a shop window—wild hair, weary eyes. The ninth frame remained untouched. She aimed it at the sea—then lowered it. Not yet.
That evening, she washed the jumper. The same one—rough, thick, achingly familiar. While the kettle boiled, she stood in the kitchen, listening to the cottage’s creaks and the sprawl of her own loneliness filling the room. And then—she tore the envelope. The paper split with a crack, like ice underfoot.
*”Emily. If you’re reading this, it means I 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 this envelope—his details. He never knew about you. But you have the right to. I believe you’ll understand why, now. Even if you go no further.*
*With love. Mum.”*
A phone number. A name. Just a single line. And yet—another world, alien and familiar all at once. A world of words, glances, footsteps she’d never known. All of it possible. All of it terrifying.
Emily sat by the window until nightfall. Her tea went cold. Snow drifted onto the sand as if trying to hush the sea, but it kept roaring. Loud. Insistent. 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. The letter in hand. The light was gentle, as if the world understood—this mattered. She stared into the lens—not to remember, but to let go.
Then she walked out to the sea. No longer hiding. Wind lashed her face, snaked under her jacket. But she kept walking. 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.
