Salt on the Tongue

“He did.” Sofia sets her mug down on the mantelpiece, her fingers lingering on the wood. “He just didn’t know how to say it. How to bridge the gap between what he believed and who you were.” She turns to face me, her sea-glass eyes holding mine. “I think that’s why he let me stay here. Because I was someone who understood the sea, like he did. Because I was a way for him to feel close to you, even when you weren’t here.”

The wind howls outside, rattling the windowpanes. I want to believe her, but the years of silence, of rejection, are a heavy weight in my chest. “Why are you telling me this?” I ask, my voice barely audible above the storm.

Sofia takes a step closer, her eyes never leaving mine. “Because I think he would have wanted you to know,” she says. “And because I—” She breaks off, her gaze dropping to my mouth for a fleeting second before she looks away. “Because I know what it’s like to love something that doesn’t always love you back.”

The air between us hums with unspoken tension. I can see the pulse beating in her throat, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Outside, the storm reaches a crescendo, rain lashing against the windows like handfuls of gravel. Sofia’s sculptures seem to writhe in the flickering lamplight, as if the sea’s turbulence has seeped into the very walls of the cottage.

“I should show you the rest of the place,” Sofia says abruptly, turning toward the narrow staircase that leads to the upper floor. “Your father’s room is just as he left it. I haven’t touched anything.”

I nod, grateful for the reprieve. As I follow her up the stairs, my fingers brush against the banister, its wood worn smooth by decades of hands. My father’s, mine, and now Sofia’s. The thought is a strange comfort, a reminder that time and tide leave their marks on everything—even the most stubborn hearts.

The upper floor is a time capsule, my father’s presence lingering in every corner. His bedroom is sparse, the bed neatly made, a stack of books on the nightstand. I recognize the titles—books about ocean currents, marine biology texts he must have bought after I left. On the desk, just as Sofia said, there’s a folder labeled with my name. Inside, a careful collection of every article I’ve ever published, every interview, every mention of my work. The sight of it hits me like a physical blow, and I sink onto the edge of the bed, the folder clutched in my hands.

Downstairs, the lights flicker once, twice, and then go out completely, plunging the cottage into darkness. Sofia curses softly under her breath, and I hear her moving around in the living room, the scrape of a drawer opening. A moment later, a match flares to life, illuminating her face as she lights a candle. The flame casts long, dancing shadows on the walls, making the sculptures seem to move in the flickering light.

“Storm’s getting worse,” Sofia says, handing me a candle of my own. “Happens a lot out here. I’m used to it.” She sets her candle on the mantelpiece and gestures toward the kitchen. “I was going to make dinner. Nothing fancy—just some bread, olives, a bit of cheese. And wine, if you’d like.”

My stomach rumbles in response, and I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast on the train. “That sounds perfect,” I say, following her into the small kitchen. The room is cozy, with a worn wooden table and a window that looks out over the storm-tossed sea. Sofia sets the candle in the center of the table and starts pulling things from the cupboards: a crusty loaf of bread, a jar of plump green olives, a wedge of soft cheese wrapped in wax paper.

We eat in companionable silence at first, the storm providing a dramatic backdrop to our simple meal. The wine is rich and dark, warming me from the inside out. As we eat, I find myself stealing glances at Sofia, watching the way the candlelight plays across her face, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the fullness of her lips. She catches me looking and smiles, a dimple appearing in her left cheek.

“You mentioned you were a sculptor,” I say, gesturing toward the living room with my wine glass. “How did you get into that?”

Sofia takes a sip of her own wine before answering. “I’ve always been drawn to the things the sea leaves behind,” she says. “Driftwood, shells, sea glass. There’s a kind of beauty in the way the ocean transforms things, smooths away their rough edges. I like to think I’m doing the same with my sculptures—taking something broken and making it into something new.”

I nod, my eyes drawn to the piece above the mantelpiece, the one that looks like a whirlpool. “It’s like you’re capturing the essence of the sea,” I say. “The way it’s always moving, always changing.”

“That’s it exactly,” Sofia says, her eyes lighting up. “The sea is never the same from one moment to the next. It’s always in flux, always reinventing itself. I try to do the same with my art.” She pauses, her gaze turning inward. “I think that’s why your father and I understood each other, in a way. We both saw the sea as something to be reckoned with, something that demanded respect.”

I think of my father’s carefully preserved articles about my work, his way of reaching out across the distance between us. “He never made it easy,” I say quietly. “Loving him.”

“No,” Sofia agrees. “But he did love you, in his own way. He just didn’t know how to show it.” She reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “Sometimes, the things we want to say the most are the hardest to put into words.”

Her touch sends a shiver through me, and I feel a sudden, inexplicable urge to close the distance between us. I wonder what it would be like to kiss her, to taste the wine on her lips, to feel her hands on my skin. The thought is both thrilling and terrifying, and I pull my hand away, my heart pounding in my chest.

Sofia seems to sense my unease, and she leans back in her chair, giving me space. “Tell me about your work,” she says, her voice soft. “What’s it like, studying the ocean?”

I take a deep breath, grateful for the change of subject. “It’s humbling,” I say. “The more I learn, the more I realize how much I don’t know. The ocean is vast and mysterious, and it doesn’t give up its secrets easily.” I smile, thinking of the long hours spent on research vessels, the thrill of discovering something new. “But there’s nothing else like it. Nothing that makes me feel so small and yet so connected to something bigger than myself.”

Sofia nods, her eyes shining in the candlelight. “That’s how I feel when I’m working on a sculpture. Like I’m tapping into something ancient and powerful, something that’s been around since the beginning of time.” She leans forward again, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s like the sea is speaking through me, telling me its stories.”

The space between us seems to narrow, charged with an energy I can’t quite name. The storm outside mirrors the turmoil inside me, the wind howling like a living thing, the rain beating against the windows like a frantic heartbeat. Sofia’s gaze is intense, unwavering, and I find myself leaning towards her, drawn in by the warmth of her presence.

“Elara,” she says, my name a caress on her lips. “I—”

A sudden, deafening crash of thunder shakes the cottage, drowning out her words. The candle on the table flickers wildly, casting distorted shadows on the walls. Sofia jumps, her hand flying to her chest. “That was close,” she says, her voice shaky.

I nod, my own heart racing. “Too close.” I reach for my wine glass, my hand trembling slightly. “Maybe we should—”

Sofia’s chair scrapes against the floor as she stands, her eyes locked on mine. “Maybe we should what?” she says, her voice low and urgent.

I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. The air between us is thick with tension, with unspoken desires and fears. Sofia takes a step closer, her body inches from mine. I can feel the heat radiating from her skin, smell the faint scent of clay and salt on her clothes.

“Elara,” she says again, and this time, there’s no mistaking the longing in her voice. “I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I saw you.”