1920s, a coastal town.

Every morning she was there at the shoreline, hauling in her nets before the rest of the village stirred. The men had their boats, their barrels, their loud voices, but she worked alone—steady, unbothered by the stares that followed her back into town with her catch. Some called it odd. I found it impossible to look away.

I would linger by the pier with my basket, pretending to be waiting for bread from the baker’s boy, pretending not to care that the cold air bit my skin. But the truth was simpler: I wanted to see her. The slight flush of her features, hair damp with seawater, the sure strength in her arms. The way she never seemed to bow her head to anyone.

I told myself it was admiration. That was safe. Respect for a woman who lived on her own terms, nothing more. But when she laughed one morning—at Mrs. Benvin’s cat padding a tad too close on the rocks, her fur soon soaked by a wave—I felt it twist through me like a secret I couldn’t speak aloud.

It was wrong, of course, to feel this way. Or at least, it would be if anyone knew. But the longer I stayed silent, the heavier it grew, pressing against my ribs until I thought it might break me open.

So when she pulled her nets ashore that day and glanced up—her eyes catching mine across the dock—I let my feet move before my courage had time to falter.

I stepped toward her.

And for the first time, I spoke.

“Does the sea not frighten you, working so close to it?” I ask softly, voice unable to find its steadiness. The words felt ridiculous as they left my tongue.