He built a small shadowbox in the cabin and fixed the medallion and key inside beside a sun-faded photo: a man with the same jaw, same squint, same stubborn line in the mouth.
Under the glass, he tucked a note in his own rough hand: Found where only the sea could keep it.
People asked afterward if he felt closure. “Not the kind that shuts,” he said. “The kind that opens something else.”
The ocean rolled under him, unconcerned, unchanged, keeping more secrets than one family could carry and returning just enough to keep them brave.
