**Three Things by the Sea**
Emily Carter arrived at the seaside cottage with just one suitcase. Inside were only three things: her father’s old jumper, still smelling of laundry soap and memory; an undeveloped roll of film with nine shots left, labelled “for later”; and a letter. Sealed. Not in her handwriting. The envelope was thick, with a blue stripe along the edge—like a stranger’s tone in a familiar voice.
The cottage was rented—plain, creaky, peeling paint. A slanting porch, the damp scent of wood, and silence so deep even the radio couldn’t pierce it. Everything here was foreign, yet somehow honest. No tourists, no bustle—just February, salty air, and long pauses. The house seemed to stay quiet with her, never pushing, just being there. Like someone with no advice to give, only a shoulder.
After her mother’s funeral, Emily couldn’t bear to stay in the flat they’d shared. Every object screamed at her—the blanket, the kettle, the light switch, even the morning sun. Everything was soaked in her voice. Everything rang with absence. So Emily left—not to run away, but to vanish for a while, so she wouldn’t lose herself completely.
The letter sat in an old trinket box her mother had handed her just before the end. *Open it when you’re ready*, she’d said, looking straight at her. No pleas, no guilt—just a gaze full of meaning. Emily couldn’t. Not then. Not the next day, or the week after. She just kept the envelope close—picking it up, putting it down. As if the weight of the paper could tell her when “ready” would come.
The sea didn’t soothe. It hammered the shore, stubborn, almost angry. Roared like a question with no answer. Emily walked the water’s edge—her coat damp, boots crunching, salt sticking 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, like it was her first time. Adjusted the lens like she was learning to live again. Took eight shots: rocks, sea glass, a lone welly, her reflection in a shop window—messy hair, tired eyes. The ninth frame stayed untouched. She aimed at the sea—then lowered the camera. Not yet.
That evening, she washed the jumper. The same one—rough, heavy, hers. While the kettle boiled, she just stood in the kitchen, listening to the creaking walls and her own loneliness pooling around her. And then—she reached for the letter. Tore the edge. The paper split loud as ice underfoot.
*Emily. 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—his details. He never knew about you. But you deserve to. I trust you’ll understand why, now. Even if you go no further.*
*With love. Mum.*
A number. A name. Just a line. But in it—a whole other world, foreign and familiar at once. A world of words, glances, steps she’d never known. Everything was possible now. And everything—terrifying.
Emily sat by the window until nightfall. 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 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 shot. Herself. In the jumper. The letter in hand. The light was gentle, as if everything understood—this mattered. She looked into the lens—not to remember, but to let go.
Then she walked to the sea. No hiding now. 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 comes next.
