Not the dock.
The town.
She stood at a distance, watching families picnic, teenagers run along the shore. The dock had been repaired. New boards. Fresh paint.
Safe now.
She touched the scar on her knee where she’d scraped it climbing out alone.
Some repairs come too late.
Margaret turned away and drove back to the coast before sunset.
That night, she slept deeply.
She dreamed of water again—but this time, it held her up.
