He asked again.
“It doesn’t have to be about the beach.”
“It is literally a beach town.”
“We can eat. Walk around. Sit somewhere. If you hate it, we leave.”
I looked at him.
He looked exhausted.
We were both in our forties by then.
And we had spent eight years building our lives around someone who wasn’t there.
So I agreed.
The first day was difficult.
I refused to go near the water.
We stayed on the boardwalk.
Michael bought coffee.
I pretended not to notice families walking past us carrying towels and beach toys.
Then we passed a café with outdoor seating.
A woman was standing near the railing talking to a server.
She looked around fifty.
Maybe older.
She was wearing a faded turquoise cover-up.
My body reacted before my mind did.
I stopped walking.
There had to be thousands of turquoise beach cover-ups in the world.
I knew that.
Then the wind lifted one corner of the fabric.
And I saw it.
A tiny yellow sun.
Crooked.
Hand-stitched.
Exactly where my mother had sewn it.
I crossed the terrace without realizing I had started moving.
“Excuse me.”
The woman turned.
“Where did you get that?”
She glanced down.
“This?”
“Yes.”
Her expression shifted.
“I’ve had it for years.”
“Where did you get it?”
My hands were already shaking.
Michael called my name behind me.
I barely heard him.
I pulled out my phone.
It took me several tries to find the photograph because my fingers wouldn’t cooperate.
Then I held it in front of her.
Nora.
Sixteen years old.
Standing on the beach in that exact turquoise cover-up.
The yellow sun clearly visible near the hem.
The woman stared at the picture.
Then at me.
Then past my shoulder.
Suddenly, she grabbed my wrist.
“Put that away.”
Her voice was low.
“She can’t know you’re here.”
The entire world seemed to shift beneath me.
“Who?”
The woman looked frightened.
Or maybe sad.
Then she whispered one word.
“Nora.”
I turned.
At first, I couldn’t find her.
There were too many people.
Then I looked through the café window.
