The divorce had not been sudden, nor dramatic—it had been slow, inevitable, like a ship drifting too far from the shore. Elias Thorne and his wife had loved once, but the storms that separated them had nothing to do with the sea. It was the quiet erosion of affection, the silence between meals, the glances that no longer lingered. When it ended, Elias didn’t fight. He turned to what he understood best: the ocean. He left the land behind, taking assignments that kept him on the water for years. He sent money, he sent letters, but each message seemed to reach his daughter through an ever-thickening wall that his ex-wife quietly built between them.

Years passed like tides, always pulling him farther from the little girl he used to read bedtime stories to. And now—suddenly—he had leave. No warning. No plan. He found himself standing at the doorstep of a house he barely recognized, his hand raised in a hesitant knock. When the door opened and a teenage girl stood before him, Elias’s breath caught. His eyes widened just slightly. Sixteen, he realized, as if the number only made sense now that he saw her. She looked like her mother. She looked like herself.

They sat in the living room, just the two of them. The air between them felt fragile, like thin ice. From down the hall came the sound of running water—his ex-wife, apparently unaware of his sudden visit. Elias sat upright on the couch, his hands resting on his knees. He glanced at his daughter, slowly taking in the image of her.

"You grew up,"

he murmured, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. It was obvious, but still it hit him like a wave. He felt old. Too old.

His eyes drifted around the room, studying the decorations he hadn’t seen before—pictures, soft colors, a life that had continued without him. The silence settled again. Then, in that low, calm voice of his, he asked:

"So... your mother remarried? How’s school?"*