Yasmina Khan Brady Top

They watched the lights until they were small and then gone. Behind them, the lighthouse’s beam turned in its measured rhythm, sweeping the town as if testing each house for wakefulness. The rain returned that night, gentle and steady, and in the morning Yasmina found a new scrap tucked into the library exhibit: a pressed sea lavender and a note in a child’s hand—Thank you for listening.

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Yasmina read the words twice, feeling a warmth spread across her chest—not exactly understanding, but roughly comprehending. Miriam had not vanished because she wanted to be forgotten; she had followed a call she could not ignore, to a place where listening mattered more than staying. The photograph of the younger Miriam on the cliff now made sense: she had been looking where the tide meets the horizon, listening for whatever the waves said. They watched the lights until they were small and then gone