Gwen's Memories

WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS CONTENT RELATED TO MEMORY LOSS, SUICIDE and FAMILY DEATH.

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The wind came first—cool and salted, curling around Gwen’s face like a memory. She stood barefoot on the worn cliffside, toes gripping the edge where land surrendered to the sea. In front of her she watched, through black curls of hair dancing accross her face, as the waves folded over themselves, endless and indifferent.

She had watched this ocean every summer since she was a child. Back then, it had seemed like a living thing—something that could listen, answer her most embarrassing questions and forgive when she screamed out in anger.

The water stretched farther than she could imagine, carrying everything she’d lost: the sound of her brother’s laughter, her mother’s voice calling her in for dinner, the small houseboat that never came back one fog-thick morning.

A gull screamed overhead, sharp, lonely and almost as though it was calling out to her.. Gwen let her breath go with the rhythm of its wings. The sea didn’t answer, but it shimmered, patient as ever. Maybe that was its reply—not comfort, but constancy.

She turned toward the old house behind her. They were there, watching her again. In their blue uniforms, stoic, just looking at her. One of them waved at her and Gwen knew what that meant. She turned back to the ocean and whispered to the horizon, “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

The tide rolled in, as if to say it would be waiting…and knowing…it would not be tomorrow.

Gwen woke to the sound of rain against glass. She hadn’t visited the ocean in weeks, but she still dreamed of it—waves curling over her feet, gulls slicing the air. This morning, she decided she would go back. She slipped into her shoes and walked down the long, pale corridor that smelled faintly of bleach and lavender. The nurses didn’t stop her; they rarely did anymore. They simply followed her. Their blue linen pants swishing with each step. She stepped through the double doors at the end of the hall. Beyond them was a garden, and beyond the garden—she was sure—the path to the cliffs. The fog was already gathering, thick and silver, curling around the edges of her world. Somewhere in the mist, a figure appeared: a young girl, standing barefoot, soft black curls loose, she was smiling softly.

“Hi,” the girl said. “You’re going to the ocean?”

Gwen nodded. “I promised I’d come back.”

The girl’s smile deepened. “It’s beautiful there.”

“My memories are there…” Gwen whispered as her words trailed off into a distant thought.

They walked together for a while. Though the fog grew heavier with every step Gwen felt lighter, her chest unclenching for the first time in years. The girl’s voice was gentle, almost familiar—like a lullaby she’d once known.

When they reached what should have been the path, the girl stopped. “You’ve come a long way today, you should go back” she said. Gwen turned to face her—and froze. The girl’s eyes were similar to her own. The same small scar above the eyebrow. The same trembling smile.

The fog thinned, and the world reshaped itself: tile floor beneath her feet, white walls, and a full-length mirror bolted to the wall. The pretty girl was still there, only now Gwen knew—she wasn’t beside her. She was her and she hadn’t made it past the double doors. A voice behind her, calm and practiced, said, “Gwen, let’s get you back to your room.” She didn’t resist. As the nurse guided her away, Gwen glanced over her shoulder one last time. Her reflection lingered in the mirror, lips curved in a secret, an almost knowing smile.

Gwen paused at the doorway of her room as the nurse’s hand lightened on her elbow. The corridor was bright now, the fog of her vision completely receded. Ahead, the walls were lined with framed photographs—calm scenes meant to soothe the patients. Flowers. Sunsets. Oceans. One picture caught her eye. It was larger than the rest, the colors warmer, more real. A boat house floating in soft gold light, its shutters open wide. In front of it, a family smiled for the camera—mother, father, a boy with a crooked grin, and a girl with wild black hair and bare feet, holding a red bucket full of shells. Gwen’s breath stilled. The little girl was her. The boy was her brother. She could almost smell the sunscreen, the wet salt in her hair, the barbecue smoke curling into the evening sky. Her mother’s hand rested on her shoulder in the photo. She could still feel it—gentle, steady, alive. She reached out, fingertips trembling, and brushed the glass. It was cool to the touch.

The nurse said softly, “That’s a nice one, isn’t it?”

Gwen nodded, eyes fixed on the smiling faces. “We used to stay there every summer,” she whispered. “Before the boat…” Her voice faltered.

The nurse didn’t press her any further and adjusted a chair near the window for Gwen to sit and view the ocean. Gwen lingered a moment longer, tracing the outline of her brother’s grin. In the reflection of the frame, she saw real self again—older, thinner, her hospital gown pale against the light. The girl in the photo was still laughing, frozen in that endless summer.

“I told the ocean I’d come back,” she said quietly. The nurse nodded. Knowing. “Maybe I already did.” Then she let her hand fall, and the nurse guided her to the chair, the sound of the sea still echoing somewhere deep inside her memory.

That evening when the hospital was asleep. Only the hum of fluorescent lights and the slow rhythm of distant footsteps filled the halls.

Gwen slipped through the side door, her slippers whispering against the linoleum, her white gown billowing as she stepped into the night. The air outside was cool and briny, heavy with the scent of the sea. The moon hung low over the water as she followed the old path downhill, past the ghostly outlines of colorful, flowered brush, striped folding chairs and wind beat white fences. Every step brought her closer to the sound — that deep, eternal heartbeat of waves against shore.

When she reached the beach, she hesitated. The sand was cold between her toes, but familiar. The ocean spread before her, silver under the moonlight, endless and alive. Salty spray glittering her face.

Gwen slipped out of her gown then waded in until the water lapped at her knees and then her waist. It wasn’t frightening, it wasn’t cold now — it felt like coming home. The waves wrapped around her gently, pulling and releasing, as if greeting her after a long absence. She felt warmth and her smile grew then relaxed. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and whispered to the night: “I told you I would come back.”

The ocean answered in its own language — a shimmer of foam that caught the moonlight. For the first time in years, Gwen felt whole again — held, weightless, and free beneath the endless sky.

By morning, the hospital was awash in soft light. A nurse making her early rounds stopped at Gwen’s door and frowned—the bed was neatly made, untouched since the night before. Her slippers were gone. The window was open just a crack.

The nurse stared at the ocean for a moment and then turned and gently pushed the glowing blue button by the door which alerted the hospital and sent it into chaos.

Calm and knowing, the nurse followed the path down the hill to where the hospital grounds met the sand. To the place she stood so often watching Gwen speak to the ocean. There, near the shoreline, sat a pair of slippers and a striped chair. Draped over the chair was a white hospital gown, damp with sea mist, fluttering gently in the wind. The nurse scanned the horizon. The tide was calm, the water silver and waveless. She thought, for a moment, that she saw a figure far out near the breakers—but it was only a play of light on the waves. She stood there a while, listening to the soft hush of the ocean, and whispered into the breeze, “Find your memories my dear Gwen.”

A gull cried overhead, and for a heartbeat it almost looked like it was waving goodbye.