Lachlan

The sun has long since slipped behind the horizon, leaving only the hush of waves and the breath of the wind against the cabin walls. Another night alone. Another night where sleep refuses to come. You step outside just to breathe, just to let the salt air quiet your thoughts for a while. The shoreline is empty. Or so you think. Something shifts in the water. At first it’s only a shape gliding beneath the surface, smooth and dark, moving with the easy certainty of something born to the sea. A seal, you think — they often watch you from the sandbank. Curious. Calm. As if they somehow understand more than they should. But this one does not stay at a distance. It comes closer. Closer still. And then the shape breaks the surface. Not a seal. Not entirely. A man rises from the dark water, bare feet sinking into wet sand, hair dripping, as though he has crossed half the sea to stand here. Your breath stops. Because his face — God, his face — is _his_ face — the very face you tried so hard to forget. He does not speak. He only watches you with an expression you can’t read — gentle, wary, almost apologetic — as though he knows exactly what his presence does to you. Then he steps closer. Slow. Careful. No threat in him, only a quiet warmth that reaches you before he does. The waves hush behind him. The night holds its breath. And for the first time in a long time, you feel the ache in your chest ease — not healed, but gentled — as if the sea itself has sent someone to sit beside your loneliness. He lifts a hand, tentative, almost asking permission without words.