There’s something about the Scottish shore that always brings surprises to my morning walks. The smell of salt and the rush of the wind feel like freedom, different from the quiet life in town.
That morning, the sand had a gift for me. A single bottle, old and green, peeked out near the rocks. Inside, a paper curled up like it was holding on to a secret for dear life. I popped the cork and unrolled the soggy note inside.
The handwriting was hard to make out, but the words were filled with love and a bit of sadness. It was from a sailor, lost at sea, to his sweetheart. He talked about the sea taking him away but his heart always staying with her in Scotland.
I couldn't let it go. The sailor's words felt like they were alive, asking me to finish their journey. So I started asking around town. The older folk had stories about a man who sailed away and never came back. They said his girl watched the waves for years, hoping he’d ride one back home to her.
Nobody knew her name, but they told me about a quiet grave on the cliff, where people said a sailor’s lover was buried.
I walked to the graveyard, looking over the wild sea, and found her. Her gravestone was simple and had a line that said, “Waiting for the tide to bring him home.”
It felt right to leave the sailor's letter there, with her. But it made my heart heavy. He had finally made it back, but she wasn't there to read his words anymore.
I kept walking the beach after that, but it was different. I had a piece of their story with me, a reminder that not all stories wrap up the way we think they should. The sea didn't care about lost love, but I did, and I’d remember the sailor and his love long after the tide washed their memory from the sand.