Three years ago, the sea took my husband.
Anthony left for a quick fishing trip before a storm. The sky warned red, but he only kissed me, smiled, and said bad weather never touched him. That was our last moment. Days later, his empty, battered boat was found. No body. No answers. Just silence and the shattered remains of our life. I grieved like a woman undone.
Soon after, I lost the child I carried. Nights were cruel. The ocean became my enemy — relentless, taunting.
For years, I stayed away. Then one morning, I booked a solo trip to a coastal town. It was time to face it. The sea was calm. As I walked the shore, I saw him — laughing, holding hands with a woman and child. Anthony.
I called out. He turned. It was him — but he didn’t know me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re mistaken. My name is Drake.” They walked away, leaving me trembling in the sand.
That night, the woman came to my door. Her name was Kaitlyn. She said he’d washed ashore three years ago with no memory. She cared for him. They fell in love. The child was hers, but he became a father. Her eyes held both fear and sympathy.
I saw him again with proof: wedding photos, ultrasound, memories. He studied them, touched them — but his eyes were blank.
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember,” he whispered. Behind him, Kaitlyn and her daughter laughed. It was the sound of home.
I said goodbye: “The man I loved died three years ago. Whoever you are now, your heart belongs here.”
And I left.
The sea was quiet. That night, I slept peacefully. It was over. Time to begin again — not for him, not for us, but for me.