I've lost contact from the other side since that day.

The letters stopped coming despite my continuous effort to send drifting bottles every midnight. There were far too many questions gnawing away at the back of my mind, so I spent my mornings half-awake and half-dazed, facing the interminable sea before me, waiting for a miracle to come out of those harsh waves.

Everything has gotten so muddled.

I didn't know what I was expecting or what I wanted to achieve by doing this every day. I could put an end to this desperation right here and now if I made up my mind, but the mere thought of having to go back to my usual routine was enough to make my skin crawl.

The endless possibilities of where this unresolved hurt could take me were terrifying because I knew it wouldn't lead to a happy place. So even though there was no certainty that my bottle would return bearing a reply to my questions, I still waited for this entity to give forth another of its lending hand.

I waited until I witnessed how the ultramarine sky bled into streaks before turning into night. I waited till the turbulent tides of the sea found peace and became as gentle as your caresses on my hair whenever I fell asleep on your lap. I continued waiting until this mind on the brink of collapsing could no longer think of anything.

If I could go past the limit of my time as a human, I'd go on like this for an eternity if it meant overcoming that insurmountable distance between us.

So I waited.

And waited some more.

In the third week of the month, just as I was about to throw in the towel, the long-awaited letter came.

***

The letter came bearing nothing but the truth and the sole truth, so every word etched on that paper was a sharp needle pierced straight deep into my bones.

Though the pain was nowhere near the time I held my breath at the sight of your lifeless remains, the truth still stung harder than I thought as I continued reading its contents.

We call them wandering souls. They flock around the dock most of the time, waiting for the opportunity to leave this boundary between life and death. And yes, you are right; these souls have long accepted their end. But those left behind to live for another day often have difficulty making peace with the idea of never seeing someone precious again in their life.

Their refusal to accept the passing of their beloved keeps those souls on the dock, like stagnant water that'll eventually rot.

So in a sense, they can't be considered living, but they aren't entirely dead either.

If you understand this, then maybe you'll also realize that you've long accepted your father's passing. That's why you resort to these letters, because it's the only thing you can do for someone who won't be coming back anymore. Isn't that right?

This will be the last time that I'm breaking the rules. Though we won't know what could be your father's reply to your countless letters, I might know one thing.

Someone as warm as your father will only wish for your happiness above all things.

That's what love's like, is it not?

Live well. We'll meet someday.

I folded the paper in half and kept it in the drawer of my study desk. I didn't know what kind of expression was etched on my face, but I knew for certain that my lips kept trembling on their own.

***

The concept of love has always been foreign to me since I was young. There were no consistent patterns in the various forms you said existed, so I was always left hanging, wondering what it would take for me to see the same horizon as you.

Once, I remember you showing no fondness for growing plants. You said they were troublesome to deal with, yet you always woke up at the earliest flush of morning with the sprinkling can in your hand, taking your time to bathe mom's favorite seedlings.

The you who tended flowering shrubs in our garden with a tender look on your face was a sight I never expected to witness one day. So when I mustered enough courage to ask you why you kept doing it, you only smiled, saying that mom's love still existed in those petals that bloomed in late spring, so you couldn't just leave it alone to wither.

I was still immature back then, so I couldn't quite grasp the meaning of your words. I only thought you looked cool, so I innocently laughed, oblivious to the underlying sorrow that accompanied the tenderness of your words.

Sometimes, I'd sit by the garden and think of you. Every corner of this sanctuary had traces of your love—from those purple hydrangeas that had blossomed into perfection to those basil leaves and chives that I use to replicate the taste of your home-cooked meals.

So I guess you were right.

Love was there in the simplest things, often overlooked by my young, inexperienced eyes.

It was there the first time you lied, saying you had no appetite to eat, so I was the only one enjoying my meal at our favorite fast-food chain. Or the time when you came too late to pick me up from school, so you had to carry me into your arms after hearing that I cried for hours. Love was also there whenever you brought home my favorite snacks, even though we were struggling to make ends meet.

Your love was always present in both good and bad times.

By the time I reached the right footing and beheld the same horizon you once set your eyes on, only the reminders of your affection were left. I understood love far too late, so I could only rummage through the scraps that had the privilege to experience the tenderness I could no longer pay back as of this day.

I cupped them as gently as I could, as though handling such a fragile keepsake, and held them close to my heart, preserving the last embers of your warmth in them.

***

Your existence was far more precious than you could ever possibly imagine.

After you left this world, I was determined to let this dormant, fiery rage preside over my mind. It was easier to navigate this life with the compass of hatred than to be swept up in this pool of unending emptiness that was slowly building its brooding presence.

But my idle mornings and restless nights only got lonelier the more I urged this indignation to run wild. I could still see the beauty beyond the dullness of the garden you've come to love, taste the comforting richness of our favorite meat pies, and cherish the strips of skin that you tore off your body bit by bit to pave a smooth way for my future.

You left me with so much love and gentleness that I couldn't bear to resent this cruel world.

So I persisted.

And persisted some more.

I lived every day with little hope, wishing that this stubbornness of yours that rubbed off on me could somehow lessen this abysmal loneliness that crept alongside every step of my feet.

I kept going.

Day by day, I collected the remaining shards of your love and found myself gradually shedding through my old skin. My fingers became gentler when tending the plants I used to be indifferent to. This tone of mine became softer when conversing with the small kids I used to treat with a cold shoulder. These eyes that had consistently followed where your gaze used to linger became attached to the scenery that gave you a glimmer on your face.

I kept going.

Night after night, I'd be reminded of this void in me whenever the skies wept. Something was missing. Nothing changed, but something didn't feel right. Something heavy kept piling up on my chest.

Still, I kept going.

Because I never planned for this love to end.

***

After a week of relentless downpours, the skies finally cleared up the next morning. There wasn't anything special after the rain, so I went on with my usual routine and immersed myself in the view of the sea. The dazzling sunlight brought by the clear conditions of the sky reflected into the crystal-clear water, making this mysterious entity appear sparkling with grace.

It was getting unbearably suffocating to bathe in that dizzying bright light, so I turned my back to the crashing waves of the sea and headed back home.

Nothing changed after the rain. But it was all fine.

Maybe it will be less lonely tomorrow.

Or the next tomorrow.

Or the day after that.

So it was all right.

It should be all right.