ONCE UPON THE PACIFIC
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Chapter Twelve: The Last Goodbye
The cabin creaked as the Eliora drifted across the silent tides, but Milo didn't move. He sat at the edge of the bunk, the old map clutched between trembling hands, the glow now soft and fading. His breath fogged the air, though it wasn't cold—just… hollow.
The silence tugged at him again—not the one around him, but the one within.
And then—
Like a ripple breaking through glass, the world shifted.
The ship faded around him.
He stood in a field of pale lilies, the kind Eliora loved. The air was heavy with the scent of earth and rain. In the distance, people stood in black, their faces blurred, like smudged oil on canvas.
There it was.
The casket.
Lowered beneath the trembling arms of a weeping willow.
His legs barely held him as he stepped closer.
He remembered this day. The sharp pain in his chest. The way the sky refused to cry, even when he couldn't stop himself. The way her locket felt so small and useless in his palm.
"They said time heals," he had whispered. "But what if time forgets?"
A breeze drifted by, and in it—a voice. Hers.
"You never had to carry all this alone."
Milo turned.
There she stood—not dressed in white or shadow, but in that yellow sundress she wore the day they first sailed together. Smiling. Whole. But distant. Like the sea itself had made her a memory just for him.
He stepped forward. She didn't.
"I miss you," he choked out.
"I didn't know how to let you go."
Eliora's smile faltered. Her eyes glistened, and yet there was peace there. Acceptance.
"Then let the ocean carry what you can't," she whispered.
And just like that—she vanished.
Milo dropped to his knees in the lilies. The memory bled away, and the sea returned. The Eliora rocked gently once more. Alone again… but lighter somehow.
He wiped a tear from his cheek, and looked down at the map.
A single new word had etched itself beneath the coordinates:
"Trust."
He didn't know what lay ahead.
But for the first time, he didn't fear it.
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