They had been planning this trip for three years. Three years of “we should” and “remember when” and “maybe this summer.” But summers had a way of dissolving—into weddings, funerals, root canals, layoffs, the quiet grief of a cat dying. Life had a way of turning a lighthouse into a screensaver you never actually visit.

Then Sylvie’s mother had called last Tuesday. “Her numbers are not good,” she’d said, and Sylvie had sat on Charlotte’s kitchen floor and cried until her nose bled. Not dramatic blood, just a thin, tired trickle. Stephie had handed her a paper towel and said, “This weekend. We go this weekend.”

Sylvie leaned against the railing and pulled out her phone. She opened her camera and started recording, not speaking at first. Then, softly: “Hey, Mom. We’re at the lighthouse. It’s cold and ugly and perfect. Charlotte is trying not to cry. Stephie is eating gummy worms in the wind like a gremlin. And the ocean—Mom, the ocean goes all the way. Just like you said. All the way.”

Sylvie didn’t answer. She pressed her palm flat against the damp wall. “She used to tell me she wanted to see the ocean one more time. Not a beach. Just the ocean. The real, endless one.”

“Tell that to the vase.”