The Moment the Tide Forgot Her Hands

The knock came once and did not repeat. Elise stood at the kitchen sink with her fingers under running water and waited for the sound to finish echoing. It never did. She turned the tap off and the quiet rushed in too fast. Outside a gull cried and stopped as if corrected.

She opened the door to an empty hallway and a folded paper on the mat. Elise did not pick it up. She closed the door and leaned her forehead against it until the wood felt solid enough to trust. Her breath shook and then slowed. The house held still.

Elise Margaret Vaughn carried the paper to the table and smoothed it flat without reading. Her full name printed at the top looked distant and official like it belonged to someone who could stand straighter than she could. She folded it carefully and placed it beneath a bowl of salt.

The house faced the bay and had always been too open to the weather. Light moved easily through it. She pulled the curtains halfway and left them uneven. The air smelled of kelp and old paint. She could hear the water even with the windows closed.

That night she slept on the floor with a blanket pulled tight. Sometime before dawn the floor creaked near the window. The room warmed by a degree she felt in her ribs. She did not open her eyes. She counted breaths until the warmth thinned and settled near the glass.

Morning arrived pale and rinsed. She dressed and walked down to the shore. The tide was low and the flats shone dark and slick. She stopped where the rocks formed a small cove and listened. Beneath the birds and the wind there was a steadier sound. It answered the ache in her chest.

She stepped closer. The water near her boots stilled. Her heart hurt. She stepped back and the water moved again. Elise Margaret Vaughn pressed her palm to her chest and laughed once softly. The sound felt wrong in the open air.

Back at the house the kettle screamed and then went quiet. Steam drifted toward a window she had not opened. She stood very still. Thank you she said and felt foolish and relieved. The window closed with a careful click.

Days took on a narrow shape. She returned messages and avoided others. The presence arrived with dusk and left before full light. It stayed near thresholds and glass. It never crossed the room. She felt it like a held breath just out of reach. When she moved toward it the warmth retreated.

One afternoon she opened the drawer she had been avoiding. Inside lay a tide chart folded thin and a smooth stone she used to keep in her pocket for him. She held the stone and felt warmth gather at her shoulder. The bay outside brightened. She did not turn. I cannot keep you she said. The warmth lingered and then softened.

A storm came hard and fast. Rain blurred the bay. The presence felt closer than ever. The water at the cove smoothed and reached toward shore. Her chest tightened. She shook her head. Not like this. The surface broke and rushed on.

That night the house felt larger and emptier. She slept through until morning. The kettle stayed quiet. The windows stayed shut.

Weeks later she returned to the cove at dusk. The tide was coming in. She held the stone until it warmed and then spoke his full name into the open air Caleb Andrew Vaughn and felt how far away it sounded how finished. She dropped the stone and watched the circles widen and disappear.

She turned back before the water could answer. The house behind her waited without listening. She closed the door and felt the latch catch clean and final. Outside the tide moved on and forgot the shape of her hands.