June 3rd
I arrived at the seaside cottage with just one suitcase. Inside, only three things: my father’s old jumper, still carrying the scent of laundry soap and memory, an undeveloped roll of film with nine shots left and a label reading “save for later,” and a letter. Sealed. Not my handwriting. A thick envelope with a blue stripe along the edge—like an unfamiliar inflection in a familiar sentence.
The house was rented—plain, creaky, worn. A lopsided porch, the damp smell of wood, and a silence so deep not even the radio could cut through it. Everything here felt foreign, yet oddly honest. No tourists, no bustle—just February, salty air, and long pauses. The cottage seemed to share my silence, neither judging nor crowding me, just… there. Like a person with no advice to offer, just a shoulder.
After Mum’s funeral, I couldn’t stay in the flat. Every object there screamed—the blanket, the saucepan, the light switch, even the morning sun. Everything was steeped in her voice. Everything echoed with absence. So I left. Not to run away, but to vanish for a while, so I wouldn’t lose myself completely.
The letter sat in an old trinket box Mum had handed me just before the end. “Open it when you’re ready,” she’d said, looking straight at me. No pleas, no reproaches—just a gaze full of meaning. I couldn’t. Not then. Not the next day, nor the week after. I just kept the envelope close—picking it up, putting it down. As if the weight of the paper could tell me when “ready” would come.
The sea didn’t soothe. It hammered the shore, insistent, almost angry. Roared like a question with no answer. I walked along the water’s edge—coat damp, shoes crunching, salt clinging to my skin. I wanted to be empty—no thoughts, no feelings. Just walking. Until my heart grew quieter.
On the third day, I picked up the old camera. Slowly, as if for the first time. Adjusted the lens like I was relearning how to live. Took eight shots: pebbles, broken glass, a lone welly, my reflection in a shop window—hair tangled, eyes tired. The ninth frame stayed untouched. I pointed it at the sea—then put it down. Not yet.
That evening, I washed the jumper. The same one—coarse, heavy, mine. While the kettle boiled, I just stood in the kitchen, listening to the creaks of the house and my own loneliness pooling around me. Then—suddenly—I did it. Took out the letter. Tore the edge. The paper split loud as ice underfoot.
“Emma. 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—his details. He never knew about you. But you deserve the truth. I trust you’ll know why, when the time comes. Even if you go no further.
With love, Mum.”
A phone number. A name. Just one line. But in it—a whole other world, strange and familiar all at once. A world of words, glances, footsteps I’d never known. Everything felt possible. And everything—terrifying.
I sat by the window until long after dark. Tea gone cold. Snow fell on the sand, as if trying to hush the sea. But it kept roaring. Loud. Relentless. Like the voice inside that wouldn’t quiet.
I didn’t call. Not because I was afraid. Because I wasn’t ready to listen.
But in the morning, I took the ninth shot. Of myself. In the jumper. The letter in my hand. The light was gentle, as if the world understood—this mattered. I looked into the lens—not to remember, but to let go.
Then I walked down to the sea. No hiding this time. Wind slapped my face, slipped under my collar. But I kept going. Leaving footprints. Deep. Real. Mine.
Sometimes three things are all you need to know: you’re here. You’re alive. And you get to choose what happens next.
