They woke early.
Neither of them spoke. The fog had returned, covering the trees like a veil.
Ezra folded the poem and tucked it inside an envelope. He left it on the stone mantle of the fireplace, weighed down by a rock.
They walked barefoot to the shore. The sand was wet and cold. The waves reached for them like hands.
Kei turned to Ezra, eyes rimmed with salt.
"Are you sure?"
Ezra nodded. "You're the only thing I've ever been sure about."
They held hands as they stepped into the water.
It was cold. Biting. But they didn't stop.
Up to their knees.
Then their waists.
The horizon swallowed the sun.
When the waves reached their shoulders, Ezra whispered, "Close your eyes."
They did.
And they kept walking.
The cabin was found two weeks later.
A hiker noticed smoke still lingering in the chimney, long after the rain had come. Inside, there was nothing—just ash, a few scattered books, and a folded piece of paper on the mantle.
Ms. Nakamura received the envelope anonymously. No return address. Just her name written in soft blue ink.
Inside was a single poem.
She read it once. Then again. And again.
And then she cried.
Not loudly. Just the kind of cry you give when something beautiful ends too early.
Later, she submitted the poem to the school's spring anthology. She didn't put Ezra's name on it. Didn't need to. Those who knew… they knew.
The school held a memorial, but quietly. Neither family wanted the truth spoken aloud. Rumors circled, but no one ever said it straight.
They had walked into the sea.
Together.
As if they belonged more to the tide than to the world.
Ms. Nakamura kept the poem in her drawer for years. Every so often, she'd unfold it gently, as though the paper might vanish if she were careless.
And she'd whisper the last line like a prayer.
We were not loud boys, but we were in love.
And that, once, was enough.