There are places where memory lingers longer than sound. Where grief doesn't announce itself—it arrives like mist, settling into corners, soft and persistent.
Mara had always believed the ocean held answers. Not in words, but in rhythm. In the way it returned, again and again, to the same shore. After her brother vanished into silence, the shoreline became her compass. A place where absence felt tangible. Where the tide whispered things she wasn't ready to hear.
This is not a story of healing. It's a story of holding on, of letting go, of learning to live in the stillness between waves. It's about the weight of water, the echo of a voice, and the quiet courage of being seen.
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