After the accident, my life split in two — before and after.
My husband and I had always shared a deep love for the sea. It was our sanctuary, our secret refuge from the world. But one stormy afternoon, the ocean that had once united us turned cruel. Our small boat capsized in the raging waves. I was pulled from the water alive — but my spine was shattered. My husband was never found.
We buried an empty coffin. No body, no clothing, not even a trace. The grief was unbearable. I was left alone — without him, without hope, confined to a wheelchair, and haunted by the endless sound of the sea.
Only our dog remained. He seemed to understand everything — my silence, my tears, the weight of loss. Every morning, he wheeled beside me to the shore. I would sit and stare at the horizon, clutching his fur, imagining my husband’s voice carried by the wind. The ocean became both my torment and my comfort.
Then, one morning, everything changed.
My dog, usually calm and quiet, began barking frantically. He sprinted toward the water, back to me, then forward again — as if begging me to follow. I watched, confused, until I noticed something strange near the tide line.
A dark shape. Still.
My heart began to race. As the waves receded, the shape became clearer — a man’s body, motionless in the sand.
I screamed.
When they turned him over, I didn’t need to look twice. Despite the sea’s cruel work, I knew that face. It was my husband.
Months of mourning, endless nights spent staring into the waves… and there he was. Not alive — but home. I wept and laughed all at once, clutching his cold hand, whispering words I had saved for so long.
And for the first time since that terrible day, I felt peace.
Beside me, my dog sat quietly, eyes on the sea — as if he too understood that the search was finally over. We had found him. We had found closure.
