In the end, my daughter never got to see all the things I had painstakingly prepared for her.
With a heavy heart, I gathered some of her belongings, determined to build a tomb for her on the island.
I did not tell Simon. He was always too busy.
More importantly, I held myself responsible for her death. This was something I needed to do alone.
When I returned to the shore and faced the vast expanse of the sea, my body trembled, my face pale.
Ever since the accident, I had developed an overwhelming fear of the ocean. Even I was so of water itself.
For three months, I could not even bring myself to take a bath, the mere thought of submersion sending shivers down my spine.
But at last, I forced myself to push past my fear and step onto a new yacht.
As the vessel cut through the waves, drawing closer to the place where my daughter was lost, my hands clenched into fists, my heart pounding with unease.
And then, I saw the island. Tears immediately welled in my eyes.
This was where we had fallen into the sea.
That day, the yacht malfunctioned. Water flooded the cabin. My daughter and I were thrown overboard. I could not swim, so within moments, I was choking, sinking into darkness.