It started small.
Like the sea holding its breath.
A breeze slid across Tumon Beach, and the waves—normally soft and rolling—flattened into a strange, unnatural stillness. Seagulls that had been crying overhead moments ago went silent. Even the distant chatter of tourists dimmed, as if someone had turned the world's volume down.
Estobaner slowed his steps, looking back. The orange sky had sunk deeper into red, bleeding against the ocean's darkening surface.
Then, the water moved.
Not like a wave. Not like the tide.
It rose—a swell too steady, too deliberate—curling upward from the center of the shoreline.
A murmur ran through the crowd. Someone laughed nervously. Someone else whispered, "What's that?"
Then the screams came.
A single, sharp cry cut the air, followed by another. Sand scattered under rushing feet. People pushed, stumbled, collided. The peaceful evening fractured like thin glass.
Estobaner's heart slammed against his ribs. Grandma's hand gripped his shoulder from behind, steady but trembling. Grandpa's voice barked something—he didn't hear the words over the noise.
The sea wasn't calm anymore.
It was boiling.
The shouts folded over each other, rising and breaking like crashing waves. Someone yelled "Get back!" Another voice shouted something in Chamorro—words Estobaner couldn't catch through the noise.
The air was thick with salt and panic. People stumbled over towels and picnic baskets, knocking over folding chairs and scattering shells that had sparkled like treasures just minutes before.
Estobaner turned toward the shoreline. The water kept rising—not a wall, not a wave, but something deep and unnatural, pushing outward like a pulse.
A lifeguard blew a whistle, sharp and shrill. A group of tourists scrambled up the sand, clutching children and bags. Someone fell. Someone screamed again.
"Estobaner!" Grandma's voice cracked like a whip. Her hand clamped around his wrist, pulling him back. Grandpa was already ahead, waving them frantically toward the path.
He tripped on the strap of his sandal, sand filling his shoe, but Grandma didn't let go. She dragged him past crying kids and shouting strangers, her breath uneven, panic leaking through the cracks of her calm.
Estobaner looked back one last time.
The water was moving. Not with the tide. Not with the wind. Something beneath the surface rippled through it in wide, rolling patterns, black against the dying orange light.
He couldn't see what it was. No one could.
But everyone felt it.
The crowd funneled toward the path, a tangled rush of bodies and voices. Estobaner clung to Grandma's hand, but in the confusion someone crashed into them—an elbow, a shoulder, he didn't even know.
For a second, everything blurred.
His wrist slipped free.
"Estobaner!" Grandma's voice snapped through the noise, thin and sharp. He tried to push forward toward her, but the crowd swallowed him up like a wave. People were shouting, stumbling, pulling their kids and bags without looking back.
He spun around. The path to safety was clogged with running tourists. Grandma's sunhat disappeared in the sea of bodies. Grandpa's voice was gone.
And then he realized—Mom wasn't with them.
His chest tightened.
She'd stayed behind to pack the things.
Estobaner forced his way sideways, away from the fleeing crowd, sand stinging his ankles as people shoved past. A little girl cried. Someone was shouting for help near the shore.
He didn't stop.
Couldn't.
The farther he pushed against the flow, the colder the air felt, the closer the dark water seemed. The rising shape beneath the surface was gone now, but the ripples lingered—black streaks stretching out like veins.
"Mom!" he shouted, voice cracking.
No answer. Just the wind. Just the rushing noise of people trying not to look back.
He stumbled forward, the world around him swelling with restless noise. The cicadas had gone quiet. The wind had stopped breathing. Yet something moved.
A sharp tremor ran through the ground. Then another. Faint at first, like someone knocking beneath the earth.
The streetlights flickered. One by one, they went out.
The gold behind him collapsed fully into gray.
His heartbeat quickened. His grandparents were just ahead, turning the corner—then gone.
A low, distant boom rolled through the air, almost like thunder. But the sky was clear.
He didn't wait. He ran.
"Mom," he whispered to himself, barely a sound. Then louder—"Mom!"
No answer. Just the growing rumble beneath his feet.
His breath hitched as he dashed across the sand, the rumbling growing louder with every step. The air itself felt heavier—like the night sky was sinking onto the shore.
Waves crashed harder than before, their rhythm broken, uneven. The wind carried a strange, sharp sound he couldn't place—half roar, half scream.
His shoes sank into the wet sand, slowing him down. The once calm beach was a blur of movement now—shadows running, scattered shouts swallowed by the surf.
"Mom!" he yelled, voice almost lost in the wind.
A cold gust hit him like a shove, spraying saltwater against his face. Something shifted out in the dark water. Too far to see. Too big to be a wave.
He stumbled forward, heart slamming in his chest, the last place he saw her fixed in his mind like a point of light in the dark.
Another low boom rolled through the air. The ground trembled beneath his feet.
Still, he kept running.
The world narrowed to the stretch of sand ahead of him.
The wind had gone strange—too soft, like everything was holding its breath.
And there she was.
Lying on the sand.
Perfectly still.
For a moment, the chaos around him felt distant, as if the shouts and rumbling had been swallowed whole. All he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears. He stumbled toward her, each step sinking into wet sand, his chest tight.
"Mom…?" His voice cracked.
She wasn't hurt. No blood. No visible wound. Just her, eyes closed, the way she used to nap in the garden when the sun was warm. Her blonde hair fanned out across the damp sand, a single strand clinging softly to her cheek, stirring faintly in the wind.
He dropped to his knees beside her, shaking hands hovering just above her shoulder. The salt wind stung his eyes.
"Mom… wake up."
No response.
Her skin was warm. Her breathing… wasn't there. Not anymore. Her chest lay still, too still, as if the world itself had paused with her. The warmth under his fingers was fading, like the last light slipping beneath the waves.
"Mom…"
His voice came out small. Barely a whisper.
Estobaner dropped to his knees beside her, sand clinging to his skin. His hands shook as he touched her shoulder, giving it a little shake. Then another.
"Mom, wake up."
No answer. Just the distant crash of waves against the darkening shore.
He shook her harder now, the tremor in his voice cracking. "Please… Mom."
Tears burned at the corners of his eyes before he even felt them fall. They slipped down his cheeks one by one, darkening the sand beneath him. He buried his face into her chest, clinging to the faint warmth that was already slipping away.
The world around him blurred—screams, rushing footsteps, someone yelling for help—but none of it mattered. All he could hear was the silence where her voice should've been.
"Mom…"
His sobs grew louder. His small fingers curled into her shirt like if he held on tight enough, she'd open her eyes again.
Then—
The sound of the present. The creak of the ceiling fan. The weight of the room. His breath caught in his throat as the memory slammed shut, leaving only the quiet hum of the night.
The sound of the waves faded. The weight of that night slowly peeled away—like a curtain being drawn back.
Estobaner blinked hard, the ceiling above him sliding back into focus. His chest rose in a shaky breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
Something soft brushed against his ankle.
He looked down. Meowth was awake, tiny ears flicking, golden eyes reflecting the faint moonlight. The little creature nudged his foot again—gentle, careful, like it sensed the storm still swirling inside him.
Estobaner wiped the corner of his eyes with the back of his hand, but the wetness didn't hide fast enough. A quiet sniff slipped out before he could stop it.
They said they did everything they could.
That night, they'd rushed her to the hospital. The sirens had been too loud, the lights too white. Doctors moving fast, whispers behind clipped curtains. No injury. No wound. No clear answer. Just one word repeated over and over in hushed voices—unresponsive.
The reports never made sense. Healthy heart. Healthy lungs. Just… gone.
Meowth nudged him again, letting out a small, worried chirp.
Estobaner reached down, fingers brushing against the soft fur. "I know," he whispered, voice thin. "I know…"
The house felt colder now, like the memory had left a draft behind.
Estobaner's fingers tightened around the soft fabric in his lap. It was faded now, but he still remembered exactly how it looked that day—sunlight catching on the light yellow cotton, the hem brushing against the sand as she laughed. Her last dress.
He held it closer, letting the familiar scent—barely there after all these years—settle in his chest like a weight that never really left.
The news back then had spoken in confident voices.
A distant storm.
Unstable volcanic activity beneath the ocean floor.
Unusual tidal pressure.
A string of explanations wrapped in calm tones meant to soothe people who hadn't seen it.
But Estobaner had seen it.
He'd heard the way the air tore open. He'd felt the earth pulse like something alive beneath his feet. And he'd seen his mother—smiling one moment, lifeless the next.
For everyone else, it was just a freak event.
For him… it never felt that simple.
His thumb traced a loose thread on the dress's edge, his jaw tightening. That night had dug itself into him too deep to be washed away by televised reasoning.
Meowth shifted at his side, letting out a soft mrrp, almost like it remembered too.
Estobaner pressed the fabric tighter against his chest. For a long time, the world had tried to explain away what happened that night. But no one had answers.
Not for why the waves had roared without warning.
Not for why the sky had split open in silence.
Not for why his mother never opened her eyes again.
And not for why his father—
The man he'd never even met—
Hadn't been there.
He'd grown up with nothing but a name.
A name tied to a man who disappeared before he took his first breath.
No grave. No trail.
Just a story swallowed by time and silence.
Back then, he used to wonder if things might've been different… if his dad had been there that night.
But some questions had no answers.
Only quiet.
Estobaner clenched the fabric tighter, his knuckles whitening against the faded color of the dress.
His mother had never spoken harshly about his father. Not once.
Not when she had to work late alone.
Not when she sat at the dinner table with an empty chair across from her.
Not even when people whispered behind her back, asking why she kept waiting for a man who never came home.
She loved him—
With a kind of quiet, unshakable love Estobaner never fully understood.
Even when she didn't have answers… she still smiled when his name came up.
He'd grown up with nothing but a name.
No face. No grave. No trail.
Just a story swallowed by time and silence.
And maybe that was what hurt the most.
Because while she loved a man she couldn't see, he was the one left behind.
While she held on to hope, he was the one who learned how to live with absence.
His throat tightened, the ache twisting into something sharper.
A part of him—small at first, but growing—began to whisper the question he'd buried for years.
Why?
Why did his father leave when she loved him so much?
Why did she have to be the one to stay and break alone?
The storm on the news could be explained.
The ocean could be explained.
But his father's silence… never.