Part I
The waves rolled in, gentle and unhurried, before retreating back into the vastness of the sea. The father stood ankle-deep in the water, watching his daughter dive into the surf.
They had done this for years—early morning swims when the world was still half-asleep. The father always said mornings by the sea started the day just right.
The daughter surfaced, grinning. “You’re getting slow, old man.”
The father chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe. Or maybe I just know how to enjoy the water instead of racing through it.”
She rolled her eyes and floated on her back, arms spread wide. “That’s what I want too, you know? To not race through life. To enjoy it.”
He already knew where this was going.
“India, huh?” he said, watching as a seagull glided above them.
“Yes.” She turned toward him, eyes bright with excitement. “Just for a year. I want to see things, live outside of everything I know.”
The father sighed, looking out at the horizon. He had always known she wouldn’t stay put forever.
Still, letting go wasn’t easy.
He waded out further. “You know, when you were little, you used to be scared of the waves.”
She groaned. “Papa—”
“No, listen.” He smiled. “You’d clutch my arm and refuse to let go. And I’d tell you that the ocean doesn’t want to drown you. You just have to learn how to move with it.”
The daughter tilted her head, listening now.
“I suppose life is the same,” he continued. “It pulls you in directions you don’t expect. Sometimes you fight it. But if you trust it, if you move with it, you might find yourself somewhere beautiful.”
Her expression softened. “So, is that you saying I should go?”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s me saying I have to let you.”
She reached for his hand — like she had always done as a little girl. “I’ll come back, papa.”
He took her hand and smiled, helping her out of the water. “I know.”
Part II
The tide was low, revealing smooth, wet sand that stretched for miles. She stood at the water’s edge, her bare feet pressing into the earth.
The beach hadn’t changed. The waves still rolled in with familiar ease. The seagulls still squawked as they circled above.
Ten years had slipped through her fingers like grains of sand. She had meant to return sooner, but life had carried her in unexpected directions.
She knelt, placing a small urn gently beside her. The sun was rising, spilling soft light over the horizon.
“I’m back,” she whispered.
The wind moved through her hair, brushing against her skin, almost like a touch.
She closed her eyes, remembering his voice. His morning calls. His quiet reassurances. The way he always told her to take chances, to make decisions and own them. The way he never said no to adventure.
Then, slowly, she opened the urn and let the ashes slip into the breeze.
