The sea was restless that morning.
Waves slammed against the rocks like fists demanding attention. Seagulls cried above, weaving through thick, grey clouds. Nine-year-old Alice clung to her mother's hand as they walked along the coastal path, her laughter a melody that pierced through the gloom. Her father was a few steps ahead, camera in hand, turning every glance into a photograph.
"Don't go too far!" her mother called out to her husband with a smile.
Alice grinned. "He's taking pictures again!"
They were on vacation—one of those rare moments when her father wasn't drowning in board meetings and her mother wasn't fussing over grocery lists or report cards. Just the three of them. No textbooks. No deadlines. Just the sea, the cliffs, and a picnic basket nestled under Alice's arm.
"Let's sit over there," her father shouted, pointing at a flat ledge that jutted over the cliff, overlooking the foaming water below.
Alice squealed in excitement and skipped forward, feet crunching against the pebbled path. Her mother followed, just a step behind.
She didn't notice the shift in the wind.
She didn't see the slick moss near the edge.
She didn't hear the rock crack until it was too late.
There was a sudden scream—a high-pitched, choked noise that tore the sky in half. Alice turned just in time to see the rock her father stood on give way beneath him. He stumbled backward, arms flailing. Her mother lunged forward instinctively, grabbing his hand. For a breathless moment, they hung there—her mother gripping her father, feet sliding against loose gravel, eyes wide with horror.
Then they were gone.
Both.
The scream died.
Only the waves spoke now.
Alice stood frozen.
"Papa?" she whispered. "Mama?"
There was no answer.
Her knees buckled. The picnic basket fell from her hands, the apples inside rolling down the path like marbles. She crawled forward, heart racing, breath shallow. The wind whipped at her dress, but she didn't feel it. Her hands gripped the edge of the cliff, her head peeked over the side—
Nothing but white-capped waves crashing into jagged rocks.
No one could survive that fall.
Not even them.
A wail erupted from her chest, raw and primal, tearing through her like fire. She screamed their names until her voice broke. She pounded the earth with tiny fists. She sobbed until her throat was sore and her tears blurred the sky.
Then—darkness.
She didn't remember when the soldiers arrived.
She didn't remember the ambulance or the whispers.
She only remembered the man who knelt beside her, his green uniform crisp, eyes stormy with guilt and sadness.
He was young—much younger than the doctors or the policemen. His voice was steady but soft, the way her father used to sound when she had nightmares.
"You must be Alice," he said.
She nodded slowly, staring at the man through puffy, swollen eyes.
"I'm Elvin," he told her. "I was your mama's little brother… adoptive, actually. She used to send me photos of you every birthday."
She didn't speak. She just stared.
He opened his arms gently. "Would you like a hug?"
She hesitated.
Then, wordlessly, she stumbled forward and buried herself into his chest. His arms wrapped around her like a shield. He didn't try to shush her. He let her sob. Let her scream. Let her tremble.
The world had taken everything. But in that single embrace, she felt a fragment of safety again.
Later that night, when they arrived at the cold, sterile shelter provided by social services, Alice clung to Elvin's sleeve and whispered through the tears, "Don't leave me too."
Elvin crouched down, met her eyes, and spoke firmly, "I'm never leaving you, Alice. From now on, I'm your home."
And just like that, her story began—not as a child orphaned by fate, but as a girl held tightly by the man who would one day become her entire world.