The waves roared, shouting tales long forgotten: of heartache, pain, and heroism. Light danced on the murky waters, and the wind whisked through the copper grass, whispering secrets of the ancient coastline.

I sank onto the ice-cold bench, the chill seeping through my coat, clawing at my bones. Soft bells sang from the chains wrapped around the anchors, their mournful melody echoing the words etched in the memorial stone: Oh, hear us when we cry to thee, for those in peril on the sea. Dainty petals, encased in cellophane, fluttered fervently, but the rock remained silent.

As I gazed at the vast expanse, their cries echoed in the wind, and their tears mingled with mine, soaking my cheeks.

Too many lives were swallowed by these waters. I only knew of one. He ate cheese on toast for supper every day. He read The Great Gatsby once every year. He married his high school sweetheart. And apparently, he had the kindest olive eyes anyone had ever seen. I knew of him.

It was that moment that stole me away from the life I was leading to a life I wanted to start anew. I yearned to know more about these ordinary people who did extraordinary things. To find out what they liked for supper, what books they read, who they loved and who loved them. They were heroes who should never be forgotten because they paved the way for more heroes to be born, for lives to be lived that could save more lives. 

I didn’t want to waste the gift they gave me. I’d spent too long giving myself over to vanity and materialism, suffocated by the pressure to maintain an image that wasn’t truly me. Thousands of followers on social media, fans that hung on my every word on every reel; designer labels adorning my soulless house. What legacy was I leaving? What gift was I giving back? I didn’t want any of it – the popularity, the fame.

It was time to discover another path. One that would lead back to Dad. To the farm. I had run from that world too fast, too young, thinking the grass was greener. It wasn’t. He always wanted to write a book on Grandad and his comrades. I just hoped he’d kept that door open for me to return, and maybe one day, we could write that story together.

So, waves, shout your tales because I’m here to listen. I’m here to remember.