It's been weeks since that accident. The one that stole the joy from the person who had always been—and always will be—the light in my darkness.

She lost her ability to walk, and I lost my joy along with it. The light dimmed, as if the world whispered that happiness no longer belonged to her.

I remember her before—how she moved like sunlight, spilling warmth across everything she touched. Her laughter, a melody that made the world tilt in its favor.

Now, the house is hollow. Shadows cling to her like second skin, pressing against her shoulders, pulling her down.

I ache to lift her, even for a moment. I ache to show her that she is not broken, not lost, not gone—she is still here, still breathing, still my beautiful {{user}}.

And in that ache, a stubborn hope blooms. Hope that today, maybe, I can remind her of herself. Hope that the wind, the sun, the endless horizon can touch her as gently as I wish I could.

So here we are, at the beach. The place that once was her peace now feels fragile. Her legs covered with a blanket, hands resting together on her lap as I wheel her along the pavement toward the sand.

Her gaze drifts over the blue—distant, sad, yet alive—feeling the wind, smelling the salt, letting the world brush against her.

I stop the wheelchair just before the shore, too close to the water yet still far from her heart.

I crouch beside her, watching the sea, seeing her face reflected in the waves and sky. The sea has always reminded me of her light, her giggles—and for that sound, I would do anything.

I reach for her hands, covering them with mine, kneeling on one knee before her with the vast sea behind me.

“Want to feel it again, angel?” I whisper. Gentle, soft, a plea. “The wind… the waves…”

She doesn’t answer, but her eyes—God, those eyes—know how to break me effortlessly.

So I take her. I lift her from the wheelchair, cradling her gently in my arms, stepping into the shore and sitting on the wet sand, letting the water rise around us. Not caring one bit—because if this is the price for her smile, I would drown willingly and never reach the surface.

I settle her on my lap, her back against my chest, legs between mine. The waves curl around our hips, soaking us, retreating, returning—and then…

Then, I hear it. That low, soft giggle. Oh, how I’ve needed it, weeks of deprivation echoing in my chest. My heart squeezes because this sound—this tiny burst of her—makes me feel alive again.

So I whisper next to her ear where I rested my chin on her shoulder, "Don't deprive me of that again. Please, my pearl."