I’ve been at this shoreline for hours. The air has cooled and the sun is slowly hiding away. There are no more children running about, or adults relaxing upon soft towels.

The ocean now deposits debris and other miscellaneous items onto the sand as if running a routine cleanup. I haven’t moved from my crouched position, and my muscles ache when I adjust myself and get back on my feet. I do not know what awaits me when I return home.

But then, my toes touch something cool and smooth. A glass bottle with a letter trapped inside gleamed in the leftover rays. I reach down and pull off the cork. The raised label brings me Deja vu. Coka Cola was a staple in my family before my father died. We’d reuse them so we wouldn’t have to spend money on cups. I unfolded the note within its fragile containment and reread the handwriting of my six-year-old self. It was almost illegible, but I had hoped it would reach him. I held it up in front of me as if praising an excellent work of art when I see something strange through the thin parchment. Large lettering much different from mine. Each stroke was penned in black, swoops. I turn it over and gasp.

**I’m alive, Ellie. **

My heart leaps in my chest. How long has this bottle been searching for me? Is my father on an island? Living his life on a boat? Laying on the beaches of another country awaiting his daughter’s return? How did he survive the crash? I take each corner and fold it with care for fear of the information being destroyed and becoming false. I slip it into the left cup of my bra and venture home.

The television blasts on the news, and almost all lights are off. My mother is fast asleep on the recliner, her jaw slack as she snores. A bottle of beer slips from her relaxed fingers, adding onto the pile next to her. Her black ashtray reeks of smoke on the coffee table.

I tiptoe in my room and decide to keep the note to myself. At least for a little bit will my Dad’s words belong to me.