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The Whisper of Lying Waves
The sea had taken him from me. The sea had given him back. And between these two moments, three years of a fractured existence where I had learned to live with a ghost.
Anthony adored the ocean. It was his refuge against the banality of everyday life. His small boat represented his freedom, a space where he could fish, swim, simply exist to the rhythm of the tides.
That day, he had decided to go out alone. I was pregnant by a few weeks, fragile and worried. Something inside me began to silently scream when he announced his outing to sea.
I had begged him to stay. I had pleaded, with trembling hands. He had simply smiled, assured me that everything would be fine, kissed me, and the door closed behind him.
The storm appeared without warning, fierce and merciless. Anthony had disappeared without a trace. They never found his body.
I broke down. The emotion, the stress – all of it also took the child I was carrying. I had lost everything.
The Silence After the Storm
Three years had passed since Anthony’s disappearance. Three years where I hadn’t dared approach the water, too terrified by what it had swallowed. Three years suspended in waiting for an impossible grief to resolve.
“You can’t continue like this,” my mother told me one spring evening, her eyes tired with worry. “You need to start living again.”
Perhaps she was right. If I wanted to heal, I needed to face this visceral fear. Not on the beach of our town – that would have been unbearable. So I bought a plane ticket and booked a vacation. Alone.
“How can you travel alone? It’s not reasonable,” my mother protested.
“At least take a friend. Or let me come with you,” she insisted.
“I don’t have friends anymore,” I shouted, my voice raw with truth.
“Then I’m coming,” she declared.
“No. I need to be alone,” I firmly replied.
Two days later, I arrived at the seaside resort. Checked into the hotel, yet unable to go down to the beach. The sound of waves resonated in my room like a cruel reminder.
The next morning, I finally put on my swimsuit, prepared my beach bag, and headed toward the ocean, each step tearing me further from my comfort zone.
The Wound of the Mirage
Hours passed. The burning sand. Children’s laughter as they built ephemeral sandcastles. Tanned bodies basking in the sun. And me, frozen on my towel, contemplating the horizon that had swallowed my former life.
I finally forced myself to stand up, to take a few steps toward the water. Little by little, inch by inch. That’s when I saw them.
A family of three. A man, a woman, and a little girl who couldn’t have been more than three years old. When I glimpsed the man’s face, the ground gave way beneath my feet.
“Anthony!” I cried out, breathless from the impossible.
“Everything’s okay, everything’s okay. Breathe calmly. Do you need an inhaler?” he asked urgently.
“Deep breaths. Inhale, exhale. You’re alright,” he repeated gently.
“You’re alive,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face.
“Do you know her?” the woman asked.
“I’m afraid you’re confusing me with someone else,” replied the man who looked exactly like Anthony. “My name is Drake.”
“No! You’re Anthony. It’s me – Marissa. Your wife,” I insisted, trembling.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t know you,” he said, his gaze empty of any recognition.
“You don’t remember me? Anthony, please – it’s me,” I pleaded.
“Are you staying at the hotel nearby?” the woman asked, having noticed my bracelet. “We can walk you back if you’re not feeling well.”
“I don’t need to be walked back! I need my husband to stop pretending he doesn’t know me!” I whispered, suffocating.
“Come, Kaitlyn,” he said to the woman, walking away with her and the child.
The Strange Metamorphosis of Memories
He had a new life. And he was denying my existence. Had he faked his own death simply to be with this other family? The betrayal throbbed in my chest like a poisoned dagger.
I gathered my things and slowly returned to the hotel, each step dragging on the sand like a path of suffering.
That evening, someone knocked on my door. It was her, the woman from the beach, her eyes anxious but determined.
“What do you want from me?” I whispered.
“My name is Kaitlyn, and I’d simply like to talk to you,” she said softly. “Please.”
“Why did you come? To threaten me? To tell me that Anthony chose you?” I retorted.
“I came to explain,” Kaitlyn replied. “Until today, I didn’t even know his real name was Anthony. I knew nothing about his past, and neither did he.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, mistrust mingling with confusion.
“Drake… or Anthony, was found washed up on a beach. No identification, nothing. He was in critical condition and fell into a coma,” Kaitlyn explained.
“I was his nurse. I took care of him,” she continued, her face softening at the memory. “When he finally woke up, the doctors found he had lost all his memories. He didn’t even know his own name. I was there during his recovery, every step. And… we fell in love.”
“And the child?” I asked.
“She’s my daughter. But Drake accepted her as his own. We built a life together from nothing. I love him deeply. But you are his wife. I have no right to take him from you,” she confessed, eyes downcast.
The Fragile Reconciliation of Absences
“May I speak to him?” I asked.
“Yes. He’s a bit shaken after what happened on the beach, but yes, you should talk,” Kaitlyn agreed.
A few minutes later, we were face to face, this man who was my husband and yet a stranger.
“Anthony, you really don’t remember me?” I asked.
“No… I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I can show you our photos,” I offered, a lump in my throat.
We sat on the couch, and I opened the gallery on my phone. Images of a life that no longer existed for him.
“We were going to have a baby,” I whispered. “But when you disappeared, I couldn’t bear the grief… and I lost the baby.”
“I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through,” Anthony replied. “But I don’t remember anything. I feel like a complete bastard.”
“It’s okay. Maybe your memory will come back,” I said.
“Maybe,” he whispered.
Suddenly, the door burst open and the little girl from the beach came running in.
“What’s up, little monster?” Anthony laughed.
“Daddy, you promised we would play!” she exclaimed.
And that’s when I saw it. The way Anthony looked at this child, then at Kaitlyn. I knew that look. It was the one he used to give me, a mix of absolute tenderness and quiet devotion.
Now, it was directed at them. I was just a stranger who had come to disturb his peace.
“No. I can’t do this,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Anthony asked.
“I can’t tear you away from this life. The Anthony I loved, the man who was mine… he died three years ago. You’re someone else now. Your heart doesn’t belong to me anymore, it belongs to her,” I declared.
“I’m really sorry,” Anthony whispered.
“Don’t be. Maybe this was something I needed. I never had the chance to say goodbye to you. Now, I finally can,” I said.
“So, what happens now?” he asked softly.
“You go back to the life you know. And I’ll finally start living mine,” I told him, a strange lightness filling my body.
Memory doesn’t belong to us. Sometimes, the sea takes what we love, then returns it transformed, unrecognizable, now belonging to other shores.