The storm pressed harder, wrapping sea and sky into one shifting wall of black and silver. Eleanor’s lantern sputtered, casting a thin circle of light that barely reached their feet. She tightened her grip, unwilling to let the night swallow them whole.
Her father’s gaze never wavered from the waves. His voice, when it came, was low, as if dredged from deep beneath the water.
“I thought if I stayed away, I would spare her the waiting. Spare her the grief.”
Eleanor shook her head, wet hair whipping her cheek. “She would have waited anyway. She always did. You were her whole world.”
His shoulders sagged. “And you?”
“I learned to stop waiting,” she said, though her throat closed around the words. “Until now.”
For a long while they stood without speaking, listening to the tide smash itself against the cliffs. The world was reduced to storm and sea and silence. Then, slowly, he turned towards her. The lines in his face were carved deep, older than she remembered, but the same eyes looked back at her—grey, searching, full of a sorrow too wide to name.
Eleanor lifted the wooden carving, its wings slick with rain. “Was this for her?”
He nodded. “She always said birds knew the way home.”
The lantern flame dipped, then rallied. Eleanor reached for his hand, and though their fingers brushed, he did not take hold. Instead he gave her a long, searching look, as though memorising her, and she realised he had no more words left to give.
Eleanor closed her eyes, letting the rain wash across her face. When she opened them again, the space beside her was empty.
She drew the blanket tighter around her shoulders, turned back towards the cottage, and carried the lantern through the storm—knowing he would return again next year, as he had every year since the sea first claimed him.
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