The ocean was never quiet. Not really. It hissed and thundered and pulled at stone, reshaped sand, tore at shorelines, rebuilt them. It made room by force and rhythm and refusal. And still, standing there under the stars with salt air against my skin and my mother’s house solid at my back, I felt more peaceful than I ever had in all the years I tried to earn it by staying small.
I went inside at last, locked my own door with my own key, and turned out the lights one by one.
The house settled around me, familiar and alive.
Mine.
THE END
