The check inside makes my breath catch.
It’s… a lot. Enough to cover months of her medical expenses. Maybe more.
My first thought is that it’s a mistake. The second is that it’s from some charity I’ve never heard of. But there’s no note. No explanation. Just her name on the pay line, and a bank I don’t recognize.
I stand there on the sidewalk with the envelope in my hand, the ocean wind tugging at my hair, and feel a strange mix of relief and unease.
Because whoever sent this knows exactly what we need — and didn’t want us to know who they are.
Inside, Mom’s still humming, swaying a little in front of the sink as she rinses a cup.
“Hey, Mom,” I say gently, holding up the envelope. “This came for you.”
She dries her hands on a dish towel, squints at the check, and then at me. “Who’s it from?”
“There’s no name. No note. Just this.” I slide it onto the table in front of her.
Her brows pull together as she picks it up, her fingers brushing the edge like she’s afraid it might vanish. “That’s… a lot of money.”
“I know.”
For a second, I think maybe she’ll remember something — a clue about who sent it, or at least an idea. But her expression drifts, softens into confusion. “Do you think it’s safe to cash it?”
“I don’t know.” My voice sounds smaller than I mean for it to. “But it’s in your name. Whoever sent it meant for you to have it.”
She sits, still staring at it, the crease between her brows deepening. “Maybe it’s from a friend. Someone from church.”
I think about the dwindling number of people who visit her these days. The way she can’t always remember their names. “Maybe.”
When I head back to my room, the check is still lying on the table between us, stark against the wood grain. I sit on the edge of my bed, pick up my phone, and stare at Damien’s name in my contacts.
I want to ask him.
I want to ask him about the check, the house, why he disappeared, why it feels like he’s already decided to leave again.
But my thumb hovers over the call button for a long time before I put the phone down.
I’m not sure I’m ready for his answer.
The clock says 12:37 a.m., but it might as well be 4 in the morning for all the sleep I’m getting.
Every time I close my eyes, I see thatSOLDsign. Or the check. Or Damien’s face the night he told me about Aaron — that look in his eyes like he was carrying the weight of a whole ocean in his chest.
By 1:00, I give up. I grab my keys, pull on a hoodie, and slip out the door, careful not to wake Mom.
The drive is short, but my pulse is a drumbeat in my ears the whole way. The moonlight paints silver streaks across the dunes, the wind pushing salt and sea into my lungs.
And then I see him.
Not on the deck. Not in a chair. But sitting right in the sand, barefoot, legs stretched out toward the water. One arm braced behind him, the other holding a dark bottle loosely at his side. His head is tilted, eyes fixed on the endless black horizon like he’s waiting for something to come out of it.
I kill the headlights and step out. The sand is cold under my sneakers, each step making a soft crunch in the quiet.
He doesn’t move when I get closer. Just takes a slow drink, swallows, and keeps looking at the waves.
“Damien,” I say, my voice nearly swallowed by the wind.
His head turns, the moon catching in his eyes. For a moment, he just looks at me, his expression unreadable.
