This was the place.

A quiet stretch of shoreline far from the boardwalks, where dunes topped with sea oats rolled down into the white surf.

Sixteen years ago — before the war, before the leg, before the grief that had defined the last two years — Ayana and I had stood on this sand under a canopy of stars and promised ourselves to each other.

I checked us in and set our suitcases by the bed, and Nia ran straight to the sliding door onto the little balcony.

“Look, Daddy!” she squealed, pointing at the sun beginning its slow gold descent toward the water.

“The ocean is so big!”