vacation (2)

The real reason was folded up in the nightstand drawer of her rented cottage: a death certificate, three months old, with her brother's name printed in black ink.

She hadn’t touched her camera since his funeral. But here, now, in the softened light of early evening, Rachel stood barefoot in the surf with the lens raised to her eye, waiting for something—anything—to make sense through the glass. The tide rolled in cold and quick.

A group of gulls scattered near the rocks, and a child’s laughter echoed faintly in the wind. She focused on a single piece of driftwood half-buried in the sand.