Undertow
What she remembered afterwards was not the fall. It was the quiet underneath — how the roar of the surface stopped the instant she went under, as though someone had closed a door on it.
Light, below her. Not reflected. Coming up.
Her father had told her once that the sea keeps everything it takes and gives back only what it is finished with. She had thought it was the kind of thing men said to frighten their daughters off the rocks. She had been wrong about a great many things that week.
Keep your place, and listen
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