01 — The Low Water Mark

At the lowest tide of the decade, the house returned. Its roof emerged first, slate tiles shining like the back of a sleeping animal. Then came the windows, the door, and the little iron gate that had once opened onto a garden.

Leena had come to photograph it for the local archive. She expected seaweed, broken glass, and a story about erosion. She did not expect fresh curtains. She did not expect smoke from the chimney.

The other spectators stayed behind the rope on the beach. Leena walked farther, her camera held above the pools. Beside the gate, a brass plate bore her family name.

She checked the old photograph in her pocket. The house had been empty when the sea took it. Her grandfather had signed the survey himself.

From inside, a kettle began to whistle. A shadow crossed the window. Then the front door opened, and someone said, 'You look so much like your mother.'