They found her once before—half-conscious, cradled in the weeds off a rocky shore, lungs half-full, lips bruised blue.

They said the current had spared her.

She said nothing. Claimed nothing.

Feigned gratitude.

She remembered it differently.

Not the cold. Not the panic or the fear or the relief.

But the softness that curled around her ribs and pulled—not down, not under, but away.

She remembered the way it held her. Carefully. With a love she had never known and would never find again.

Like a sacred object, not a drowning girl.

They called it an accident.

She called it the only time she felt safe.

⸻

She goes to the shore again now, not as a girl, but as a woman who has carried the unbearable weight of air for too long.

Every breath a theft. Every heartbeat a delay.

She wades deeper. The moon hides behind clouds like it’s ashamed of what it’s about to witness.

Her clothes float, then cling, then pull.

She steps past the shelf of safety.

Kelp wraps around her ankle like a reminder.

⸻

She whispers its name—not in words, but in longing.

It answers like it did the first time: without sound.

A single tendril, cool and reverent, brushes her thigh. Another, at her back.

They do not drag or pull. They receive. They accept.

In acceptance: Love.

When the first wraps her waist, she exhales.

When one presses gently to her chest—above her frantic heart—she whispers:

“Don’t save me this time.”

The ocean sighs.

It does not ask why.

It only listens.

⸻

The last thing she feels is a soft touch at her jaw.

The same place it touched her the first time.

A question without words.

Her lips part.

No breath escapes.

Only a faint sound—

“Please.”

⸻

They will not find her.

There will be no headlines.

No rescue.

Just stillness.

Beneath it, a quiet reunion.