Behind her, the ocean continued its endless movement—waves crashing against the jagged rocks in rhythmic, indifferent thunder, foam hissing as it retreated over barnacles and slick stone.
Salt spray stung her raw skin, carrying the metallic tang of blood from the cuts on her feet and the faint, acrid residue of the explosion that had hurled her into the sea hours earlier. The water had been a merciless cradle then, dragging her under, filling her lungs with panic and brine, but now it was simply... there. Indifferent to drama. Indifferent to survival. Indifferent to the fact that somewhere in a sterile hospital room a man was grieving for a wife who was, against all probability, still breathing.
Still walking.
Still refusing to let fate have the final word.
