Three Things by the Sea
Emily arrived at the seaside cottage with just one suitcase. Inside were only three things: her father’s old jumper, still carrying the faint scent of laundry soap and memories, an undeveloped roll of film with eight shots left and a label reading “for later,” and a letter. Sealed. Not in her handwriting. The thick envelope had a blue border, like an unfamiliar inflection in a familiar phrase.
The cottage was rented—simple, creaky, peeling at the edges. A slanted porch, the damp smell of wood, and silence untouched even by the radio. Everything here was foreign, yet oddly honest. No tourists, no rush—just February, salt in the air, and long pauses. The house seemed to stay quiet with her—not pressing, just there. Like a person with no advice to give but a shoulder to lean on.
After her mother’s funeral, Emily couldn’t bear to stay in the family flat. Every object there screamed—the throw blanket, the saucepan, the light switch, even the morning light. Everything pulsed with her voice. Everything echoed with absence. So she left—not to run away, but to vanish briefly, so she wouldn’t lose herself completely.
The letter sat in an old jewellery box, handed to her just before her mother passed. “Open it when you’re ready,” she’d said, looking straight at her. No pleas, no reproach—just a gaze full of meaning. Emily couldn’t. Not at first. Not the next day, nor the week after. She just kept the envelope close—picking it up, setting it down. As if the weight of the paper might tell her when “ready” would come.
The sea didn’t comfort her. It pounded the shore stubbornly, almost angrily. Roaring like a question with no answer. Emily walked along the water’s edge—her coat grew damp, her boots squeaked, salt clung to her skin. She wanted to be empty—no thoughts, no feelings. Just walking. Until her heart grew quieter.
On the third day, she picked up the old camera. Slowly, as if for the first time. Adjusting the lens like she was learning to live again. She took eight shots: pebbles, broken glass, a lone welly, her own reflection in a shop window—messy hair, tired eyes. The ninth frame stayed untouched. She aimed at the sea—then stopped. Not yet.
That evening, she washed the jumper. The same one—coarse, heavy, hers. While the kettle boiled, she simply stood in the kitchen, listening to the creaks of the house and her own loneliness spilling across the room. Then—suddenly—she made up her mind. Took the letter. Tore the edge. The paper ripped loudly, like ice cracking 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. In the envelope—his contact. He never knew about you. But you have the right. I believe you’ll understand why, now. Even if you don’t go any further.
With love. Mum.”
A phone number. A name. Just one line. But in it—an entire other world, foreign yet hers all at once. A world with words, glances, footsteps she’d never known. Everything felt possible. And everything—terrifying.
Emily sat by the window until nightfall. Her tea went cold. Snow fell onto the sand as if trying to quiet the sea. But it roared on. Loud. Relentless. Like the voice inside her that wouldn’t be still.
She didn’t call. Not because she was afraid. Because she wasn’t ready to listen.
But in the morning, she took the ninth shot. Herself. In the jumper. Holding the letter. The light was gentle, as if the world understood: this mattered. She looked into the lens—not to remember. But to let go.
Then she walked down to the sea. No longer hiding. The wind lashed her face, slipped under her collar. But she kept walking. Leaving marks behind. 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.
