Three years earlier, the sea had claimed my husband.

Anthony left that morning saying it would just be a short fishing trip before the storm rolled in. The horizon glowed a war:ning red — the kind sailors always feared — but he only kissed my forehead, grinned, and swore bad weather never touched him. That kiss was the final moment we shared.

Days later, the Coast Guard found his boat drifting, beaten and empty. Anthony was nowhere. No remains to lay to rest, no explanation to hold on to. Just a silent deck and the ruins of the life we had built. I mourned like a woman undone.

Within weeks, I lost the child I was carrying. Nights dragged without mercy; daylight felt like betrayal. The ocean turned into my enemy — boundless, merciless, taunting me with every crash of its waves.

For years, I kept my distance.

Then one quiet morning, something inside shifted. I booked a solo trip to a coastal town a hundred miles away. I told myself it was time to deal with it — to stand before the water and still be standing. The sea was gentle that day, pale sky mirrored in still waves. I walked barefoot along the sand, breathing salt air, when I watched him. At first, I thought grief was playing its most savage trick.

The man ahead, laughing, holding hands with a woman and child, seemed exactly like Anthony. Same broad shoulders. Same easy gait. Same dimple that showed when he smiled. My body froze. My knees gave way. I called his name. He turned, and my breath caught. It was him — alive. But his face displayed only puzzlement, no recognition.

“I’m sorry,” he said carefully.

“You must be mistaken. My name is Drake.” The woman at his side pulled the little girl close. The three walked away, leaving me shaking in the wet sand, my voice drowned by the tide.

That evening came a knock on my hotel door. The woman stood there. She gave her name as Kaitlyn, stepping inside as though into battle. She shared that “Drake” had washed ashore here three years earlier, hurt and without memory. She had nursed him, and they fell in love. The girl was hers from another relationship, but “Drake” had become the father she needed. Her tone was loyal, yet her eyes betrayed the struggle — sympathy for me, fear of losing him. I saw him again the next day.

This time, I carried proof: our wedding pictures, snapshots of us at home, the ultrasound of the child we lost.

He studied them quietly. His fingers trembled when they traced my rounded belly in one photo. But his eyes… they were foreign.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t remember this. I don’t remember you.” Behind him, Kaitlyn’s laughter blended with her daughter’s.

It was the sound of a home. A life. The truth was unquestionable: the man I loved was gone, even if he stood before me. My voice quaked as I said, “The man I loved passed away three years ago. Whoever you are now, your heart is here.” Then I walked away. Outside, the air was soft, the ocean still. For the first time since that storm, I snored without feeling crushed by the sea. This was my farewell. It was time to start again. To live not for him, not for us, but for me.