He climbed onto a boulder slick with spray. The rain had eased into a fine mist, but the sea remained restless. Waves slammed the rocks below, sending sheets of frigid brine surging up around him. On the shore, the crabs scuttled on, lost in a ritual older than mortal memory.
They needed no tenderness, no longing. Only tide and moonlight. Their instinct was unburdened by emotion. No lovers’ quarrels. No fragile confessions. They mated because a pulse inside them saidnow, and that was enough.
Nic exhaled slowly. Would it not be simpler if men were the same? If love didn’tdemandso much? No vulnerability, no sacrifice. Just chemistry and timing. The crabs thrived without love—so why had man been cursed with it?
He looked toward the dark horizon, chilled deeper than the sea wind could reach. Somewhere out there, Helen was breathing beneath the same sky. And yet, their love—so fierce, so full—was unraveling thread by thread. They couldn't live on longing alone. Passion wasn’t mortar enough for something meant to last.
He could no longer see their future clearly. But even the thought of a world without her felt like drowning.
Could he end it, if ending it might save them both?
Or worse—if she came to that decision first—would he have the strength to let her go?
Beneath the echo of rain and the tide’s crashing grief, Nic had no answer. Only the ache of wanting and the terrible silence of not knowing what to do with it.
Near midnight, Nic noticed the tide of red beginning to shift. The males had begun their restless retreat into the forest, slipping one by one beneath the tangled green. But the scarlet ladies remained.
They lingered under the weight of the clouds, unmoving silhouettes against the pale shimmer of surf. For hours they waited, statues cast in crimson and patience. Nic watched from the shore, puzzled. What held them here? What were they waiting for in the hush before dawn?
And then, light breached the horizon—soft, rose-tinged, trembling, and the answer revealed itself.
One by one, the red-veiled ladies moved forward, stepping into the surf as if drawn by some ancient summons. The sea crashed around them, cold and breathless, and as each wave surged in, the crabs released their cargo—delicate white clouds, billowing in the foam.
Eggs.
New life, flung into the harsh mercy of the churning tide.
The water swallowed the clouds, sweeping them into the endless depths far beyond this small coast. Nic stood frozen, waves lapping upon shore, and watched as the ocean claimed them all.
By sunrise, only a few remained—last offerings to the sea. Most of the armored mothers had turned and vanished into the forest behind their mates, their duty done.
Alone atop his boulder, Nic gazed toward the horizon, grief blooming quietly beneath his ribs. How many of those fragile lives would survive the chaos waiting for them beneath the surface? How many would live long enough to feel the pull of moon and tide and return here—scarred, changed, burdened by the journey?
And if the travelers did return, would they remember this place? Would the cliffs feel like home? Or merely a dream they couldn’t quite name?
The surf roared. The light didn’t warmed the waves. And Nic’s sorrow pressed in—not sharp, but steady. A weight worn smooth with time.
The gloom clung to Nic for days afterward—a heavy, wet shroud he couldn’t shrug off. He knew the crabs weren’t to blame. They had only stirred the silt at the bottom of his heart’s lake, revealing what had always been there. The endless drizzle didn’t help. It soaked everything—sky, ground, thought. He ached for the sun, for the crash of warm waves on bare skin, but the sea was iron-gray and sharp as knives, and the clouds hadn’t lifted in days.
Nothing was dry. Not the bark of trees. Not the earth. Not even the inside of his tent. A slow leak had turned his bedding clammy, his spare clothes sodden. Damp had crept into every seam of his world.
He crouched over his iron kettle, coaxing flame from damp tinder. The little spark hissed and sulked, unwilling to rise. Smoke curled up like a dying breath. Nic tried shielding the wisp of fire with his hands, but the wet wind snatched it anyway.
The fire died. The cold pressed in closer.
Huddled in darkness, he listened to the ocean wailing into the wind. His tea was just a handful of leaves steeping in coldwater. He drank it anyway. His stomach groaned at the thought of the uncooked pheasant nearby, but there was no fire to roast it, no heat to render it edible. Instead, he rationed out a small handful of nuts—chewed slowly, deliberately, each bite a tiny defiance against hunger.
He stared into the void and let his mind slip toward home.
He saw it clearly—bursting through his family’s door, shedding his damp coat, warmth wrapping around him like an embrace. The hearth roaring. The savory scent of his mother’s steak pie spilling from the oven. Father at his desk, sorting ledgers with a furrowed brow. Uriah nestled in his corner chair, a blanket over his legs, reading aloud a story Nic had heard a dozen times. Mother setting the table, silverware arranged just so, every action gentle with care. Maybe River would be there too, if it was a quieter night at the hospital.
He imagined himself stepping into that picture. Carrying the stew pot to the table. Dipping in a spoon. Laughing as his mother swatted at his hand for sneaking a bite. His mouth watered.
He could almost feel the knife in his palm, pressing butter into the soft break of a warm roll.
He could almost hear her voice calling them to supper.
But the dream cracked. The cold pushed deeper. The wind howled through the trees, and his stomach answered back with a hollow growl.
