Page 3 of Since the Day We Left

Wendi knew it was time to go.

If she stayed out too late, her mom would worry, and the last thing she wanted was to add more sadness to the day. Standing up, she brushed the sand from her shorts and took a few steps backward. The boy looked up, still seated, still holding the shell.

When she turned to leave, Wendi couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder one last time. The man had returned from the water and now stood beside the boy, who was holding up the shell, his lips moving—speaking. The man’s gaze lifted, meeting Wendi’s across the beach. He gave a small nod that she returned before continuing on her way.

Arriving back at her secret spot, where her sketchbook lay open beside the tin, she kneeled and reached for the scattered treasures, carefully placing them back inside. Then she snapped the lid shut, scooped out a shallow hole, and buried the tin, smoothing the sand before crossing a few twigs over it.

Wendi turned back to her sketchbook, dusting away the specks of sand. After a final glance at her work, she shut the book, secured the elastic band around the cover, and tucked it under her arm before heading home.

As she climbed the wooden steps leading away from the beach, something made her pause. Looking back, she saw the man and boy standing together, their heads bent over the tiny treasure she had given away.

Somehow, with one less piece, her collection felt more whole.

Her mom was right. The worldwasfull of hidden treasures.

1

Wendi

Present Day

Sunday

Atthefootofthe bed, a little Yorkipoo body unfurled in a sleepy stretch. A soft whine came, then another, more insistent. Max’s paw nudged Wendi’s shoulder.

She pulled the quilt tighter around her. The morning light filtered through the sheer linen curtains, and outside, the waves crashed against the shore.

“I’m up, I’m up,” she groaned.

Her phone lit up, reading 6:47 a.m.—thirteen minutes before her alarm was set to go off. Max always managed to wake her right before. His black hair stood up in wild tufts, and his eyes were bright, ready for the day.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and moved toward the door. Max jumped down to follow her.

“Morning, troublemaker.”

She caught her reflection in the dresser mirror—hair twisted into gravity-defying angles and pillow lines etched across her face. Her former Manhattan-self would’ve gasped and reached for the straightener. Back then, mornings started at 4:30 a.m., with a calorie-tracked smoothie and an outfit chosen days in advance. Now, her routine consisted of staying in pajamas until she absolutely had to change, occasionally forgetting what day it was.

The beachfront cottage felt like a dollhouse compared to her Manhattan apartment, but what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in charm. Salt-worn siding, faded blue paint peeling in places. Mismatched furniture. Windows that sometimes stuck but framed perfect ocean views. Even the shower demanded a specific sequence of handle-turning that had taken weeks to master. But it was hers.

In the kitchen, she filled Max’s bowl while the coffeemaker gurgled to life. She leaned against the counter, watching him devour his food with a single-minded focus.

It was hard to believe this was the same dog she’d rescued two years ago—the one who’d spent his first two days cowering under her bed. Back then, he’d been nothing but protruding ribs and skittish eyes.

“You’ve come a long way, sweet boy.”

And so had she.

The woman who had once sobbed through a presentation to hotel executives, who had locked herself in a bathroom stall, hands shaking too much to even text James about what had happened, felt like a stranger now.

Not that he would’ve understood anyway.

“It’s just nerves,” he’d say. “Buckle down and push through.”

She grabbed her mug—the one Emma had gifted her—with “Home is where your art is” painted in wobbly letters. The coffee warmed her hands as she slipped on sandals for their morning walk.

Outside, salt air filled her lungs as Max tugged at his leash, eager to reach the sand. The beach was nearly deserted—just a few joggers in neon running gear and the Hendersons, an elderly couple who had been married for fifty-seven years, walking arm-in-arm wearing matching windbreakers.

Max bounded toward the waves, kicking up bursts of sand before looping back, his eyes on her as if to say, “Did you see that?”

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