They said the sea kept it secrets, but what if it didn't
want to anymore? The storm was only the
beginning. Shoreline Secrets Chapter 1 Salt
on the wind The wind bet Jamie first.
It carried the cold bite of salt and seaweed and tugged at his
sleeves as if to pull him closer to the cliffs.
He stood beside the car for a moment, staring at the cottage,
small, weathered, almost swallowed by the wild grass.
It didn't look like the kind of place that kept people safe.
It looked like it belonged to the sea.
Just for the summer, his mum had said.
Somewhere quiet, somewhere you can breathe.
Jamie wasn't sure how quiet was meant to help, but here he was.
A man stood there, his great uncle thinner than Jamie
remembered, hair silvered, face lying from too many years of
wind and sun. His size, the kind that have
seen storms come and go, soften when he saw Jamie.
But he didn't smile. He only nodded, stepped aside,
and let Jamie in. Inside, the house smelled of old
wood, salt, and something faintly like smoke.
A coat hung by the door. On the wall above, a single
photograph in a cracked frame, A younger version of his uncle, a
surfboard under one arm, eyes on the horizon.
The man in the photo looked freer, or maybe it was just a
way the light had caught his face that day, but his uncle
didn't speak of it. He only closed the window
against the wind and left Jamie alone with the hush of the
house. Dinner had been quiet, too
quiet. The kind of quiet where every
scrape of a Fort, every sigh of the wind outside felt louder
than it should. His great uncle wasn't unkind,
just used to the silence. And Jamie, restless in the
stillness, felt like a guest in his own skin.
He left the house, the air outside cooler, salt sharp.
The sky wasn't dark yet, but the day was fading, the last of the
light caught in the Crest of the waves.
He followed the path down. The cliffs rose on either side,
the sea breezing steady beyond. And then he saw him.
A boy, maybe a little older than Jamie, walking along the shore,
barefoot, bored under one arm, head bent as though listening to
something only he could hear. The boy wasn't in the water, not
now, but the way he moved, it was as if the sea still held
him. Jamie stood still, the wind at
his back, watching as the boy made his slow way across the
sand. The boy didn't look up.
He kept walking, bored under his arm, the seas pulled still in
the way he moved. Jamie stayed there, the wind
tugging at his jacket, the salt air sharp in his lungs.
He watched until the boy was just a shape against the fading
light. Then, finally, he turned and
made his way home. Inside the cottage, a wall
seemed closer. A lamp glowed low in his corner.
His uncle sat by it, a cop cradle in his hands.
He didn't look up as Jamie entered, or maybe he did, but
only for a second. His eyes returned to the dark
beyond the window, as if still listening for the sea.
Jamie hesitated and left his uncle with quiet he seems to
know so well. The morning came, Gray and
quiet. Light filtered through the thin
curtains, pale and cool. Jamie lay still for a moment,
listening. The house creaked softly as it
settled, the sea's voice always there beneath it.
He breathed it in, salt and wood and something older he couldn't
name. Downstairs, the cottage was
empty. His uncle's boots were gone from
beside the door. Out at sea, maybe, or walking
the clips, Jamie didn't know. The kitchen was small,
everything worn at the edges. A pot of tea sat cooling on the
stove, a mug left out beside it. Jamie poured himself a cup that
tastes stronger than he expected.
He stepped outside. The breeze cooled against his
skin. The cliffs rose sharp against
the pale sky, the waves below breaking soft against the shore.
Jamie stood there, mug in hand, watching the sea.
And on the beach far below, a boy picking his way across the
sand, bored under his arm. The same boy.
Jamie stayed still, watching, until the boy disappeared beyond
the cliffs. The silence stretched.
The sea kept breathing. Somewhere down there, the boy
was gone. Or maybe he'd been a trick of
the light, the same way the sea sometimes made rocks into
shapes, shadows into stories. Jamie shook his head.
No, the boy had been real. He followed the path, skirted
the edge of the cliffs, the breeze stronger here, salt spray
cool on his face. The grass grew wild.
The world out here felt bigger and quieter.
For a while he walked, aimless boots scuffing the stone, hands
in his pockets. No plan, no destination.
The path narrowed, the cliffs more sheer.
Jamie stopped at the bend where the rock jutted out like the
prow of a ship. He wondered if his uncle came
here, if this was where the photo had been taken, the one
with the surfboard, the boy his uncle had been.
He wondered what it would feel like, belong to the sea, the way
the boy on the beach seemed to. His phone vibrated in his
pocket, a notification sneaking through.
Jamie didn't look at it. He stayed where he was,
listening to the waves break on the rocks, steady as a
heartbeat. When he finally turned back, the
cottage waited, small and square against the sweep of sky, Smoke
curl from the chimney. Now his uncle was home.
Inside, his uncle stood by the stove, pouring tea into two
mugs, the same stillness in his movements, as if nothing could
hurry him now. He didn't speak as he handed
Jamie a mug, just met his gaze for a moment, flicker of
something behind his eyes, then turn back to the window.
The tea was strong, a little bitter.
His uncle set his mug down. Storm coming?
He said at last, voice low. Jamie only nodded.
He felt it too, not just in the air, but in the way the house
seemed to brace itself. Best to stay off the cliffs for
now. Jamie didn't answer, just
watched as his uncle's eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, the
sea darkening beneath the weight of the sky.
The house felt heavier now, the kind of heavy that came before
rain, before Thunder, before something you couldn't quite
name. Upstairs, the rooms were small
and spare. A narrow hallway stretched to a
door at the far end. Wooden paint chipped A rusted
latch at the side. The attic, maybe.
The air felt cooler here, the smell of salt stronger.
Jamie hesitated at the door. The latch was unfastened, as if
someone had opened it recently. He didn't open it, just stood
there, the storm pressing at the walls, the house holding its
breath. Jamie turned away, but not
before glancing back once more. That night, the storm didn't
come. All at once.
It crept in, soft at first, like a breast beneath the eaves.
Jamie lay in the narrow bed, the ceiling sloping low above him,
the smell of the sea stronger in the damp.
The house shifted around him. Jamie turned on his side,
pulling the blanket higher, listening, a sound so soft he
almost thought he imagined it. A floorboard above the attic.
He held his breath, waited. Nothing but the rain.
And then, as the wind rose, the attic door, the door at the end
of the hall, shifted with a long, slow side.
Jamie closed his eyes. The house, the sea, the storm,
all of them waiting, watching, holding him in the dark.
Jamie stayed still beneath the blanket, the weight of it no
match for the heaviness in the room.
The house settled and shifted around him.
Every sound felt louder in the dark.
His phone lay face down on the small table.
He didn't reach for it. There was nothing there.
He turned onto his back, stared at the low ceiling where a
shadow danced with each flicker of lightning.
Beyond the clouds, Jamie thought of the boy on the beach, the way
he moved, and for a moment he envied him.
A floorboard above gave a single long creak, the attic door
perhaps shifting in its frame. Jamie closed his eyes.
The sound came again, soft but certain.
A floorboard above, weight shifting in the attic, Jamie
rose. The night felt thick with salt
and rain, the house holding its breath.
At the end of the hall, the attic door stood just a jar.
A faint thread of light spilled out, thin and flickering like
the last breath of the moon. Jamie drew closer, Hart loud in
his ears. Through the gap he saw him, his
uncle's shadow bent over something long and pale, the
hiss of a zipper slow, deliberate.
The canvas fell away, and the surfboard emerged.
His uncle stilled, slowly, turned, as if he heard something
he'd long expected but hoped never to face.
For a heartbeat they didn't move.
Two shadows caught between storm and memory.
Then the uncle turned back, hence quick now drawing the
zipper closed. With practiced haste, Jamie
turned and fled down the hall, down the stairs, not to his bed,
but to the window at the front of the house.
Outside the sea waited, dark, endless, it's breast steady
beneath the storm. Shoreline Secrets Chapter 2
Storms don't shout when they leave, they just slip out the
back door and leave. Everything changed.
The cottage held its breath as the sky cleared.
The cliffs dripped like they've been weeping, the sea calmer.
The kitchen smelled of salt, smoke and something warm, butter
hitting the pan. Egg just started to curl at the
edges. His uncle stood at the stove,
moving slow and deliberate, the kind of breakfast made by habit,
not hunger. Jamie sat at the small wooden
table. Steam fogged the window behind
him. The chair beneath him cracked
every time he shifted. He didn't say anything, not yet.
The only sounds were the soft scrape of the spatula, the quiet
pop from the toaster, and the sea.
Always the sea. His uncle turned, slid one plate
across the table. The toast was just shy of burnt,
the egg runny at the center. He placed the knife and fork
with a kind of reverence, like he didn't want to wake the
house. They sat eight in silence.
The tea was strong, still slightly bitter.
Jamie watched the yolk split across the toast.
And then, as if the silence had stretched too far, why was there
a surfboard in the attic? His uncle didn't flinch, didn't
even look up, just kept chewing, then reach for his tea,
swallowed once, and met Jamie's gaze.
You know how to use one, no? Jamie replied.
Then it's not safe. He looked away again, back
toward the window, the sea beyond it.
The silence returned, deeper this time, like the tide pulling
back before something else breaks the surface.
Jamie picked at the last bit of toast.
The question still hung in the room, unanswered but not
dismissed. His uncle drank his tea like
nothing else needed to be said. I'm going to head upstairs for a
bit. Jamie said.
His uncle just nodded, didn't look away from the window.
Jamie stood. He grabbed his phone from the
counter and left the room. Jamie climbed slowly, his phone
loose in one hand. He didn't go to his room right
away. He stopped at the end of the
hall, where the attic door stood closed now, Didn't touch it,
just stood there, listening. No storm this time, only the
slow breath of the sea through the window glass.
Jamie blinked. Look down on his phone, Rosa was
calling. Have you become one with the
sheep yet? Rosa asked.
Nah, they said I didn't bleat enough.
The house creaks like it's got something to say.
Honestly. Jamie said.
Proper horror film energy. Love that for you.
But seriously, you were right. Rosa asked, still breathing,
mostly out of boredom. But yeah.
Jamie answered. I know you don't want to chat
about it yet, but not now, Rosa, all right?
Just don't go full sea hermit on me.
Yeah, on his phone. His mom is calling in.
Tell her you've taken a vow of silence and seaweed.
Rosa laughed. Later.
Jamie smirked and the phone with Rosa ended.
Jamie stares at the screen a bit, then swipes to answer.
Hi love, just checking in. Everything all right?
His mom asked. Yeah, settling in.
OK, it's quiet. Well, that's kind of the point,
isn't it? Bit of peace, bit of space.
It's only till the end of summer.
We'll get things sorted by then, all right?
Doesn't feel like it. Jamie replied, barely audible.
His mom's soft now. I know, but things are.
It's getting better. Just hang in there, OK?
Is your uncle treating you all right?
Yeah, he doesn't say much. Jamie replied.
You 2 have that in common then? Mom said lightly.
And then again. Silence.
We'll talk soon, promise. Yeah, sure.
The phone clicks. Jamie sets it down beside him,
exhales. But outside the light was
changing, cleaner, brighter, The kind of calm that comes after
something leaves and before something else begins.
Later, Jamie followed his uncle into town, a drive through
narrow lanes, salt still dried on the window, silence riding
between them like a third passenger.
Cornwall held its stories in the clips, not the loud kind, not
the ones you'd told, but the ones that waited, that watched
in the curve of a Stonewall, in the rust on a gate, in the way
every Rd. seemed to lean toward the sea.
Old houses lined the Main St., narrow, sloping, and around it
all the sea never far. Like a whisper, you could almost
hear even when it wasn't speaking.
The town was small, one Rd. curling like driftwood through
rows of old stone buildings. Paint faded, signs rusted at the
corners. A post office, a bakery, a
single corner shop. Jamie followed his uncle through
the narrow aisles. The men didn't speak much, just
pick up bread, milk, eggs, the same way you pick up habits at
the back. Someone called out.
Well, I'll be. You're still upright then, old
man? Jamie's uncle turned the corner
of his mouth twitching. Not quite a smile, but something
close. The man walked over.
Didn't know you had company. Glances at Jamie.
Your nephew, yeah. Jamie nodded, unsure if he was
meant to say anything. You getting him out on the board
yet? Friend asked.
He doesn't know how. What?
Never surfed. Jamie shook his head.
Well, we can't let that stand, can we?
Got a few of the lads down near Gauls Point this week.
You should come by. I'll tell Sam to look out for
you, he said playfully. Jamie didn't say anything, but
the name lingered like sea salt on the back of his throat.
Across the road, tucked between a cafe, he saw it.
A record shop, faded sign, window display of worn sleeves
and handwritten price tags. Can I check that place out real
quick? His uncle glanced over, nodded
once. The friend gave a wave.
The shop smell like old wood and cardboard sleeps.
Posters for shows long past curled at the corners.
Jamie moved down the aisle. 13 senses, Rosie and the Gold Bug.
Someone signed LP's with names he didn't know.
Then he saw it. A white sleeve.
No title on the spine, just a name faintly penciled across the
front. SNWB.
The Echo Between Worlds demo sticker on the corner, Red.
A string playlist for what still hurts.
It looked like it had been pressed just once, maybe twice.
The kind of thing someone made for friends, or for someone who
never came back. He picked it up, held it, then
put it back. By the time he reached the
cottage, the sky had cooled to Gray.
Grass brushed his sneakers. Inside, the quiet returned,
familiar now almost welcome, but not quite.
Jamie should have bought something, even just to break
the silence. Then came the knock.
Jamie looked up from the coat hook his uncle had already
crossed to the door, framed in the light.
A boy. No words at first, just the
sound of the wind curling between them.
Jamie stepped closer, but didn't speak.
Didn't have to, because the boy on the porch was the same one
he'd seen. Jamie blinked once.
Hey. Sam said.
Jamie watched him, not openly, just in glances.
Up close, Sam looked different than he had on the shore.
There was a kind of ease to him. Jamie had imagined him freer,
maybe even Wilder. But up close, it wasn't
wildness, it was stillness, like he belonged to something Jamie
hadn't learned how to stand in yet, a silent stretch between
them. You look bored stiff, want to
get out of this cave for a bit? Sam said.
Jamie didn't answer right away. He hadn't expected Sam to speak,
or to offer, but the house behind him was too quiet, and
the air outside felt clearer than his thoughts.
He nodded and followed. The path curved down, skirting
the cliff's edge. Sharp drops on one side, tangled
grass on the other. Sam didn't say much.
He just walked ahead, surfboard tucked under one arm like it
waited. Nothing.
Jamie followed. At the bottom of the path.
The sand opened wide, empty except for the low tide, curling
in soft crescents along the shore.
Sam dropped the board with the thud and kicked off his shoes.
Then, without a word, he peeled off his shirt, slow, careless,
and tossed it aside. Jamie didn't mean to stare, but
he did lean brown from sun, the kind of body that came from use.
Muscles that didn't try to be muscle, just was.
His thin chain caught the light at his neck.
Sam crouched to adjust the fin on the board.
Jamie had seen plenty of bare chests in school, online, even
in changing rooms, but this was different.
This was real, and right in front of him.
Sam. Glenn stopped squinting.
You coming or you just going to melt on the spot?
Jamie looked away fast, too fast, then stepped forward,
unsure where to look, unsure of how not to.
Sam didn't talk much, didn't explain like a teacher, more
like someone used to being watched.
He pointed once at the board, at the water, then dropped low to
show how to paddle. Jamie crouched beside him,
nodding like he understood. But it wasn't the lesson that
stuck. It was the way Sam moved, like
the sea didn't just welcome him, it recognized him.
Sam stood again, shook the sand from his legs.
Just watch me for now, Sam said. He paddled out fast, quick
strokes, cutting clean, waited, the weight of cane not too high,
not loud, just enough to carry him.
And then he rose, not just standing, lifting into something
Jamie hadn't known a body could do, like flight, but grounded,
like freedom. It lasted only seconds, but
Jamie felt it, something shift, something spark, a quiet thrill
under his ribs. Not fear, not yet.
Sam came out of the water and shouted.
Hey, got a spare board at mine, I'll bring it by.
We'll go out tomorrow. Early's best.
The sea's less crowded, calmer, easier to listen.
The sun was lower now, the tide pulling back like it had seen
too much. He looked at Sam, Sea strict Sun
warned something wild still clinging to his skin, and said
nothing because he couldn't yet. They walked the Cliff past,
back, not saying much. The breeze had calmed, the light
turned golden, the kind that made everything feel like memory
before it was even over. Near the gate, Sam paused, look
over at Jamie, who was still clutching the towel like it
might steady him. You've got a lot to learn.
And then, just like that, he reached over, slung his arm
across Jamie's shoulders. Not heavy, not playful, just
there. It was just a moment, but Jamie
felt it all the same. The shape of Sam's arm, the
weight of him, warm, solid. The kind of closeness he hadn't
realized he missed. They reached the porch.
Sam stepped back, gave him a quick nod.
And turn early tomorrow. Don't sleep in That night, the
house stayed still. No storm, no whispers from the
attic. Only the memory of sea and skin
and the touch that hadn't left him.
Not every tide brings back what it takes, but some warnings feel
like forgiveness. There was no Thunder, no wind
pushing at the walls, just the hush of the sea and the space
between questions that hadn't been asked yet.
Some stories don't shout. They slip in quietly, told in
second chances, in salt stone glances, in footsteps.
That pause, just long enough to be noticed.
This is Shoreline Secrets chapter 3, The things the tide
gave back. This was the kind of morning
that didn't explain itself, but if you listened, really
listened, you might hear the moment before something begins.
In this chapter, Jamie waited. Not for a storm this time, for
something smaller, maybe softer, maybe just a boy with the
surfboard. Morning came slow, not heavy
like storms, just quiet hail, like the day hadn't decided yet
what it wanted to be. The house was still, no Creek
from the attic, no sound from his uncle downstairs, only the
sea. Jamie sat at the edge of the
bed, one sock on, one in his hand, not really getting
dressed. The kitchen smelled faintly of
tea leaves. The air still held salt from the
night before. He stepped outside.
Sam had said early, but early could mean a lot of things to
someone who moved with the tide. So Jamie waited.
Not at the Cliff, not at the shore, just by the gate.
He just stood. And then Sam appeared, holding 2
surfboards awkwardly over his head, arms stretched wide like
some kind of sleepy armed scarecrow.
His hair was still damp from the morning rinse. 1 flip flop was
half on the other missing, and the look on his face, the kind
of look that said I regretted this the second I left the
house. Sam shouted.
You ready? Jamie nodded, the edges of his
lips curling upward, not in amusement but in something
quieter. Sam stepped forward with a huff
and exhaled as he passed one board to him, the weight clearly
catching up. Jamie caught it, adjusting his
grip, easing into the moment. Thanks.
He said, and the two of them turned toward the sea.
The beach was empty, low tide curling and white crescents like
the sea was trying not to wake anyone.
They didn't head straight into the water.
Sam dropped his board onto the sand like he'd done it 1000
times, just crouched beside the board, flattening a space with
his hand, motioning Jamie down beside him.
Before you ride away. Sam said, brushing sand flat
with the side of his hand. You got to know how to fall.
He looked up at Jamie with a crooked half smile, the kind
that hinted this wasn't just about surfing.
Falling's not a failure, he added.
It's how you figure out where to stand.
Jamie raised an eyebrow. I thought surfing happened in
water. Sam glanced over.
Tell that to the bruises on my ribs.
Now lie down, stomach flat, hands Here the lesson started.
Simple paddle posture, hand placement, balance.
Sam moved easily around him, adjusting his elbow with a quick
tap, nudging his foot slightly without asking.
You'll fall forward first, Everyone does.
If you fall backward, you're overthinking it.
Jamie didn't respond, he just nodded, jaw a little tighter
than before. After 30 minutes, Sam stood and
stretched. All right, let's see you forget
all of that in real time. They waded out.
Jamie paddled hard, unsure if he was doing any of it right.
Probably wasn't. He tried catching the first wave
too early, the second too late. The third it caught him and spun
him, a full tumble board flying out from under him.
He stood up in waist deep water, dripping, breathless, blinking
the sting of salt out of his eyes.
Sam, still floating on his board, watched with what might
have been pity or amusement. See you back on the sand.
So much for natural talent. But for some reason the failure
didn't feel like the end of something.
Just a start of being seen. Wrong footed off balance, but
seen. They sat a little longer until
the salt dried on their skin and the silence felt full but not
heavy. Then Sam stood.
I know a better place to rest. Jamie looked up.
Come on. Zim said, tilting his head
toward the path. It's cooler there, and 0
witnesses if you decide to fall asleep drooling.
He started walking, not waiting for an answer.
His board bounced lightly against his hip.
It wasn't a command, but it also wasn't a request.
It felt like an invitation. Jamie followed, not struggling
exactly, just heavier. Not from the water, not even
from the fall, but from something older.
The kind of weight that doesn't bruise the skin but stays
anyway, waiting from silence to notice it.
Something that had followed him all the ways, from school
hallways to the edge of this coast.
Sam didn't seem to carry anything like that.
He moved like someone who belonged here, to the path, to
the air, to himself. Jamie watched him from behind,
quietly, wondering what it would feel like to walk like that.
You come out here a lot? Jamie asked sometimes, mostly
when the weather's in a good mood.
Sam replied. He dropped his board beside a
weathered rice and lay back in the grass, arms folded behind
his head, eyes on the sky like it had nothing to demand from
him. He didn't say this is the spot,
but it was. Jamie hesitated, then followed
slower, folding himself down onto the ground beside him, not
close enough to touch, just near enough to share the view.
The sky above stretched pale and endless, the kind of blue that
didn't feel warm yet. Beside him, Sam exhaled slowly,
like someone who knew how to rest in his body.
For a while they just lay there, the sound of their breathing
falling into a rhythm of the wind, not synchronized, but not
out of step either. Jamie turned his head slightly,
gaze drifting to Sam, his face relaxed.
You really love it, don't you? The sea.
Sam didn't move. It's the only thing that doesn't
ask for anything back. Jamie didn't know if that was
sad or enviable. Maybe both.
He hesitated, then spoke again. You ever shared it with someone?
Sam's eyes flicked toward him. He didn't smile this time, just
looked held Jamie's gaze longer than usual.
A pause, then Sam turned back to the sky.
The quiet stretched, not empty, just undecided.
He let the next question rise like a wave.
Not loud, not forced, just there.
Can I tell you something? Jamie hadn't meant to say it,
not today, but something about the stillness made it harder to
keep carrying. Sam didn't speak, didn't push,
just lay beside him, listening. Jamie opened up, not all at
once, not with drama, just enough for the truth to begin.
He told Sam why he was here. There was a boy back at school.
Jamie started. He didn't say the boy's name,
didn't need to. He talked about the way they
used to walk home in the same direction, the long glances, the
silence between them, how he thought maybe it meant
something. Until one of his friends said
something. A joke in the schoolyard, a
laugh that landed too close to truth.
Jamie had panicked, so I said he was the one.
He was the one always looking at me.
The boy didn't speak to him after that, didn't look at him.
The next week they fought. Not loudly, just enough for
teachers to pull them apart, enough for Jamie to be sent
home. My mom said maybe I needed a
break somewhere quiet since it's my last year.
Sam didn't respond right away. He sat up slowly, arms resting
on his knees, and looked at Jamie.
Not with judgement, not even surprise, just something close
to ache. Then quietly.
You're not the only one who's done something afraid, and
you're not the only one still carrying it.
They lay there for a while, just letting the hush do what words
sometimes can't. Time passed like tide, slow and
certain. Then Sam spoke.
My great grandfather used to surf this coastline.
Jamie turned his head, but didn't interrupt.
Sam continued. He talked about finding an old
letter, once folded, yellowed, left inside a book no one had
opened in years. Not a diary, just a single
letter. Never sent.
A love letter unfinished. He wrote it to someone he
couldn't be with. Said he lost everything for
loving Jamie. Didn't ask how old the letter
was, didn't ask if Sam ever found out who it was meant for.
Some silence don't come from not knowing.
They come from knowing enough. Sam sat up slowly again, looked
out over the edge. Sometimes I wonder if they
should still get that letter. He didn't say who or how, but
something in the wind picked up right then, like the sea wanted
to carry it anyway. A goal called once, then
nothing. Jamie set up too, brushing sand
from his palms, something a little easier in his posture
now. Do you want to try to find them?
Jamie asked, voice steadier than he expected.
Then, after a breath, I could help.
He didn't say it like a maybe. He said it like someone who knew
how much it mattered to be found.
Sam turned to him, surprised not by the offer, but by the way
Jamie said it. Not like a joke, not like a
dare. Just like someone who meant it.
And for the first time since they met, Jamie didn't look like
he wanted to disappear. He looked like he might stay.
Like maybe this summer wasn't about forgetting.
Maybe it was about finding something.
They started walking back, not in a hurry, not quite ready to
let go of the afternoon. The sun stretched lower behind
them, painting long shadows across the cliffs.
Just before they reached the edge of the path, Sam glanced
sideways. You're not the only person here
who's gay. He said it lightly, like a
secret that didn't need whispering anymore.
Jamie blinked, then smiled. Not a big one.
They stood like that for a moment, not needing to say much
more, just the wind brushing the tall grass, the sea whispering
below. Then Jamie said, tomorrow
morning, same time, right? This is Shoreline Secrets, a
quiet gay love story set on the cliffs of Cornwall, told in
sound, in breath, in What Goes on said Jamie was sent to the
coast to clear his head, but the sea had other plans.
In the last chapter, Jamie learned to fall on the waves in
the silence, and maybe into something beginning now,
something returns from the past. A letter never sent, a mark that
might mean something, and a kiss that wasn't supposed to happen
but did. This is Shoreline Secrets,
chapter 4. The shape beneath the water.
They surfed again that morning. The sea was calmered.
Jammy had fallen twice, once forward, one sideways, but Sam
didn't laugh either time. Better than yesterday, but you
got to time it right. Feel the wave now.
Jamie walked the path alone. His arms ached from paddling,
but it wasn't a bad ache. It felt earned.
The salt clung to his ankles. Sand crept inside the cuff of
his jeans where he hadn't rolled them properly.
His towel hung across his shoulders, damp at the edges,
brushing the back of his neck. The wind was soft today, more
like breath than bite, and the waves behind him now whispered
instead of roared. The cottage came into view,
smoke rising thin from the chimney.
No sign of his uncle. Jamie kicked off his shoes by
the door, dropped the towel onto the hook, and made his way to
the bathroom. The water ran warm, steady.
Jamie stepped in without thinking, letting the heat work
into his shoulders, rinsing off the salt, the sand, the ache.
He stood like that for a while, arms braced against the tile,
water gently down his back. Then he turned off the tap,
stepped out slowly, towel across his shoulders again, but this
time dry, softer. The salt was gone, washed from
his skin, but something stayed, something you couldn't scrub
off. He dressed slowly, the same old
hoodie from the day he arrived. The sleeves were slightly
stretched now. Then he sat at the edge of the
bed, not ready to lie down, not ready to do anything else
either. His phone lay nearby, face down
on the table. He reached for it.
Tap the screen. 1114 Sam had said Noon.
Jamie set the phone down again, screen up this time.
The minutes would have moved any faster, but he kept glancing at
them anyway. Jamie arrived at Sam's just
before noon. He raised his hand to knock, but
the door opened first. Sam stood there barefoot, his
hair still damp from a quick rinse, eyes catching light like
they always seem to. Right on time.
He said, like it wasn't surprising.
Jamie gave a small nod and stepped him.
The inside of the house smelt faintly of toast and something
like lemon Polish. From deeper in the house, a
woman's voice called out. Sandwiches are on the counter.
You boys eat something before you run off again.
Jamie glanced toward the voice. Thank you.
He called gently, polite but genuine.
Sam's room was smaller, low ceiling, slanted roof, and a
small bed messed up. There was a stack of books on
the desk and a cracked mug with pens inside, the kind of space
that looked like it belonged to someone who didn't mind being
alone. They ate in mostly silence.
Jamie chewed slowly, watching the way dust floated through the
air. He didn't know what to say, so
he didn't force anything. Halfway through his sandwich,
Sam leaned back on one arm and looked at him, amused.
You've got sauce on your lip. Jamie blinked.
Wipe the left side of his mouth with the back of his hand.
Sam raised an eyebrow. Other side?
Jamie stilled, awkward. Sam leaned forward slowly.
No teasing now. With the pad of his thumb, he
gently brushed the right side of Jamie's mouth.
His hand lingered for half a second.
Their faces were close now. Jamie didn't breathe for a beat.
Sam leaned back a little, holding up his hand.
Come on, I've got nowhere to wipe it.
Jamie blinked. Sam held his fingers a little
closer. Lick it.
Jamie laughed, caught off guard. He hesitated, then leaned
forward, Tong barely brushing the side of Sam's finger.
It wasn't much, but it was enough to make Sam freeze, just
for a second. Thanks.
Sam said. Then he pulled back, looked down
at his plate, said nothing more. Jamie reached for his glass of
water and drank too quickly. After they cleared the plates,
Sam moved toward his desk and pulled something from the thin
Manila folder. This, he said, handing it over,
was inside one of my great grandpa's books.
My mom found it ages ago. Thought it was just some poem,
but I kept it. Jamie took it carefully.
No greeting, no sign off, just a single page of words.
My dearest, I have tried more than once to leave these words
unwritten, but they return like the tide.
I loved you in the mornings when you would drop your board in the
sand. I loved you in the sidelines
too, when we sat side by side, knees barely touching.
You made the shore feel like something I could belong to.
You made me feel known without ever asking for it.
I should have told you then, but the word was not kind to men
like us. I was afraid, not of what I
felt, but of what it might cost you to feel it to still.
I carry those days like a warmth under my ribs.
If you ever find yourself by the sea again, know that I loved you
without shame. It was all that I had to give
yours always. Jamie read the whole thing twice
before he spoke. He never signed it.
Nope. Sam said quietly.
No name, just that. Jamie flipped the page slowly.
On the back, near the lower right corner, something caught
the light. Two small wave like lines.
John by hand. Not decorative, not part of the
papers designed, just two little curbs, side by side, one
overlapping slightly. He tilted the page towards Sam.
Was this already here? Sam leaned in, then blinked.
Don't think I ever noticed that. They both stared at it for a
moment. Something about it felt quiet
and deliberate, like it wasn't meant for someone specific.
Jamie smoothed the paper gently with his fingers, then asked,
not teasing. Have you ever written a letter?
Like a real 1? Sam gave a small laugh.
Not unless birthday card counts. Jamie smiled too, barely, then
after a pause. I wonder what it was like back
then. Sam didn't answer, not right
away. He just looked at the wave mark,
traced it once with his finger. Maybe that's why he wrote it
down. He said softly, So at least one
part of it could exist. Jamie nodded.
They didn't say anything else after that, but the silence
between them had shifted. Not full of questions, not full
of answers, just enough space to feel something unspoken settling
in. The letter lay open between
them. Jamie's hand rested on the edge
of the paper, fingers curling slightly around the corner.
He looked at Sam, who was still sitting with his back against
the wall. What would you write?
He asked, voice quiet. Sam looked over, brow raised.
Right. What?
Jamie gave 1/2 shrug. I don't know.
A letter maybe. A letter to who?
Jamie hesitated, then said. Someone you liked or had a crush
on? Sam pauses for a second and
starts. All right, letter time.
He cleared his throat like he was about to mock perform
something theatrical, but when he spoke, his voice came quieter
than before. Dear Jamie, I loved you.
I knew it. Because you ate the crust even
when they were burnt. Because you didn't talk much but
always sat close. Because you never looked at the
ocean like it was big, just like it was honest.
I loved you because something about you made everything
quieter, and it felt OK to stop running, just for a second.
Yours truly. Love Sam.
Sam reached forward slowly. Not dramatic, just sure.
But when Jamie leaned in, Sam met him halfway.
Their lips touched softly once, then again, slower this time,
deeper. Jamie's hand came up, hesitated,
then gently touched Sam's jaw, thumb resting just below his
ear. Sam leaned in, his hand brushing
Jamie's thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of his jeans.
They pulled back only slightly, 4 heads near, nose is brushing,
eyes half lidded but open. Jamie exhaled.
I've never. Me neither.
Sam said before Jamie could finish.
They didn't laugh, they just stayed there, breathing together
like it meant something, like it always had.
And then Jamie leaned in again. Sam met him fully, lips parting
just enough, a kiss that held longer, deeper, like they both
finally understood what it was. No one rushed.
There was no noise in the room except a faint brush of breath
and the creak of the floor under them.
When they finally broke apart, it wasn't with a start.
It was with stillness, A closeness that stayed.
The letter still sat open on the floor, the light through the
window had turned gold and for the first time in a long time,
Jamie didn't feel like he was visiting someone else's life.
He felt like he was in his own. The past home was the same, but
something in Jamie had shifted. He could still feel it, the kiss
not on his lips but in his chest.
He didn't try to name it, just walked slow and steady, letting
the day fold in around him. The air was cooling as he
reached the house. His fingers brushed the edge of
the door frame on the way in, but the quiet felt different
now. Not empty, just waiting in the
kitchen. His great uncle was standing by
the stove, pouring hot water into a chipped mug.
The kettle let out a faint hiss as it settled.
Jamie stepped inside. Neither of them said much at
first. Did you ever know someone named
Arthur? He asked quietly.
His uncle didn't respond right away.
The spoon slowed in the mug, then stopped.
He set it down carefully on the saucer.
The sound felt louder than it should have.
We used to surf together, he said.
Jamie hesitated. Was he your friend?
The old man didn't look at him, just stood there for a moment,
hands braced against the counter.
Don't remember much, he said. Another pause.
Something unspoken sat between them.
Then he picked up his tea and left the room.
Jamie stayed where he was for a moment after his uncle left.
He looked at the untouched second mug on the counter, the
faint ring of tea on the saucer. Then he reached into his pocket,
pulled out his phone, and leaned against the table.
The screen lit his face as he opened his message.
He hesitated, then typed. Guess what happened today?
A few seconds later, three dots appeared.
Rosa replied. What?
Jamie smiled and typed a kiss. The dots reappeared, then
another message popped up. I'm calling you.
A second later, his phone buzzed.
He swiped to answer. Took you long enough, Rosa said.
Tell me everything. Jamie laughed, the kind that
came from somewhere deeper than just amusement.
I will, I promise. He stepped out of the kitchen
and headed toward his room. Was it awkward or like movie
worthy? Jamie was about to answer when
something caught his eye. The attic door.
It was slightly open, just enough to see the faint slant of
light inside and a shadow movement.
His great uncle was up there again.
Jamie stopped walking. Rosa.
He said quietly. I'll call you back.
Wait, what? Just I'll call you back.
He hung up before she could ask anything else.
The hallway was silent again. Jamie moved toward the attic
door, slow, careful. He reached the top and stood
just outside, not entering, just watching.
The attic was warmer than he expected.
Jamie stepped in slowly, the wood groaning beneath each step.
His great uncle didn't acknowledge him, just knelt in
the corner, unzipping. A long canvas bag laid across
the faded blanket. It was a surfboard, long
weathered sun bleached in places.
The zipper gave way with a dry rasp.
Jamie stopped a few feet away. Can I see it?
The older man didn't speak, only shifted slightly to the side,
allowing him closer. Jamie crouched.
The board was beautiful in its age, scratched and softened by
time, but lovingly preserved. Jamie looked down at the board,
then back at the man beside him. Were you good at it?
He asked softly. No answer, but a smile flickered
across his uncle's face, just for a second.
It told him everything. Can I use this?
The smile faded, but not in a sad way.
His uncle gave a slow nod. Nothing more, just enough.
Jamie ran his hand over the board, tracing the outline near
the base. Then he saw it.
Two wave marks, intertwined. Not decorative, not accidental.
Exactly the same as the one in the letter.
Jamie stared. His throat felt suddenly dry.
He looked up. The attic light caught the edge
of his uncle's face, unreadable. You two were more than friends,
Jamie said. Not a question.
A silence followed, long, heavy now.
The great uncle turned away, not in shame, but like someone who'd
opened a door that should have stayed closed.
The attic felt quiet again, but something lingered in the air
like dust disturbed by truth, like the past exhaling.
It was a boy with sun in his hair, wind burnt cheeks and salt
water on his skin. Barefoot, board in hand, another
boy waited for him at the edge of the rocks.
A double wave mark scrolled between them in the sand,
already half washed away. The memory didn't stay long,
just a flicker, A love that was never named but never really
gone. Jamie didn't choose the coast.
His mom sent him here, somewhere quiet, somewhere you can
breathe. But the sea had other plans.
He met Sam, a boy who moves with the tide, with salt in his hair
and something unspoken in his eyes.
Then came the letter, a page that had waited decades to be
found, signed only with a mark, two waves side by side, a
promise from someone long gone. In their search for answers,
Jamie and Sam found more than they expected.
A kiss neither planned and the first crack in the silence
around Jamie's great uncle. That mark is about to take them
further than they ever gone. Back to a different Cornwall,
the summer of 1960. Two boys, one love story no one
dared speak of until now. This is Shoreline Secrets,
Chapter 5. Two waves, one tide.
The morning was pale, cold enough to keep their hands deep
in their sleeves. Jamie's board was heavier than
Sam's, wood instead of foam, salt still clinging in the
grain. He shifted it under his arm,
fingers tapped the nose. 2 waves side by side.
Sam saw it before Jamie spoke, stopped walking.
It's the same, he said. Jamie's eye stayed on the mark.
It is a go. Across the sky.
The sound fell further than it was they were supposed to be in
the water. Lesson starting soon, but the
pull was here. Surf can wait, Sam said.
Jamie nodded once. Jamie turned his head toward the
Cliff. Sam followed.
The cottage stood above the waterline, white walls catching
the pale light, roof dark from last night's rain.
On the porch, a man stood still, watching Jamie's fingers tighten
on the board, the mark under his hand.
From high on the porch, Jamie's great uncle watched the
shoreline. The boys were shapes against the
pale sand. Jamie's board was different,
older wood worn smooth edges softened by ears.
Even from here he knew where the mark was. 2 waves, side by side,
his breast caught. He had run his fingers over that
same mark before, long before the wind shifted, Salt carried
up the Cliff. Jamie's voice caught in the air,
folded into another, a laugh he hadn't heard in years.
The beach below blurred Sam's outline, Jamie's stance fading
into shape. He remembered Edward.
Arthur's voice carried over the tide full of salt and sun.
Edward turned just in time for Arthur to close the space
between them. A big hug, arms tight, words
knocking lightly together. Arthur laughed into his
shoulder, breast warm against his ear.
They pulled back just enough to see each other, both smiling.
Arthur set his board down first. Edward followed, laying the nose
just above the tides reach. Arthur's fingers found the mark,
trace the twin lines cut into the wood. 2 waves side by side.
Arthur tilted his head toward the sea.
Waves are small today. Perfect for you to finally beat
me. Edward smirked.
Perfect for you to stop pretending you're better.
Arthur laughed, deep and easy. Come on, then.
They waded in, water curling cold around their ankles.
The boards rolled low in the shallows.
Paint faded in places, edges dulled by years of salt.
Arthur peddled first, Edward following just behind.
A small set rolled in. Arthur glanced back, grinning.
This one's ours. They caught it together.
The wave carried them in, side by side, close enough for their
shoulders to brush. They let the board slide up, the
wet sand collapse beside them, breathing hard.
Arthur's hand stayed on Edward's arm longer than needed.
The only sound was the tide breathing in and out.
Edward turned his head, looked at him.
Rithi looked, salt on his lashes, sun on his cheek, breath
still fast from the wave. Arthur met his eyes, didn't look
away. Edward chest rose, Arthur's
fell, then the other way around, a rhythm that felt like it could
go on forever. Arthur picked up his board,
Edward did the same. They walked back along the sand,
boards on their arms. Arthur said something low just
for him. Edward's mouse lifted in a half
smile from the porch above. An older Edward stood still,
watching the boys in his memory. The shapes overlapped.
Arthur's laugh in Sam's smile, his own younger stance in
Jamie's. 2 pairs, 2 summers. The wind pulled at the grass.
The sea moved the same as it always had.
Jamie and Sam moved along the same stretch, boards on their
arms, the older board's nose resting in Jamie's palm, right
where the mark was carved. The sand here was firm, holding
each step in shallow prints. Sam glanced at Jamie's hand,
then at his face. We'll go to mine first, he said.
Pick up the letter. Jamie nodded.
They didn't hurry. The boards were heavy.
The path to the road was longer than it looked.
Sam's house sat low against the road, the kind of place that
seemed to grow out of the ground.
They left the boards leaning by the side wall.
Inside, the air was warmer. Finding the letter was easy.
It was right where they left it. Sam set it on the table, edges
yellowed, folds sharp as a held breath.
Jamie carried the page to the doorway, held it where the light
was clean. Outside the board waited, nose
catching a thin line of sun. He lifted the paper to the
carve, not touching, just close. Left curve higher, right curve
tighter. A small notch where the lines
met the same, not just a shape. And now we know.
He said. Jamie nodded.
Sam's voice was quiet. They were more than friends.
Jamie looked up. The space between them felt
smaller. Jamie lifted the old wooden
board, held it under his arm, the mark brushing against his
side. The road back to Jamie's was
quiet, lined with grass bending in the wind.
Jamie's great uncle was still on the porch when they came through
the gate. His eyes were far away, out
underwater. Jamie leaned the board against
the wall. Sam caught Jamie's eyes, a
silent nod, their fingers laced, not hidden, not hurried.
Jamie's great uncle's gaze shifted from the sea to the boys
to their joined hands. The kitchen smelled faintly of
tea in the sea. Jamie's great uncle moved
slowly, measuring leaves into the pot.
Jamie sat across from the window, Sam beside him.
Steam began to rise from the kettle.
Jamie's great uncle glanced over his shoulder.
I see you 2 getting along. He said, the hint of a smile in
his voice. That's good to see, Jamie, feels
like it suits you here. Jamie felt heat in his face.
Maybe. He said softly, and Jamie's
great uncle sat down opposite them.
Sam reach into his pocket. He set a folded paper on the
table. Jamie's great uncle's eyes
dropped to it. The steam from the tea curled
upwards, curling through the space between them.
He didn't reach for it right away, just looked, breast pulled
in. What is this in my great
granddad's things? Sam said.
Jamie's great uncle's thumb brushed the mark.
Then he unfolded. The paper read in silence.
The room seemed to shrink. Only the cattle tickling filled
the air. Jamie leaned forward, voice low.
I don't think he ever gave it to you.
He stood, let her in hand, and walked into the living room.
Jamie caught Sam's eyes, a small tilt of head.
Let's go. They rose from the table as they
stepped into the hall. Sam glanced back.
Great Uncle sat in the armchair, let her open on his knees, his
gaze fixed on the page. Sam's eyes lingered and the
sound of the present began to thin.
Jamie's great uncle heard the boys climbing the stairs.
Come on, Arthur. Laughter followed the words.
Jamie and Sam blurred at the edges.
The boards beneath their feet became a different summer.
Now it was Arthur and a much younger Edward walking up those
same stairs. They were still damp from the
surf. Salt clung to their skin, hair
darkened by seawater. Arthur grinned over his
shoulder. Edward caught up and pressed a
finger to his lips. They slowed only a little, feet
soft on the steps, the air between them already charged
with what they meant to do. Once the door closed upstairs,
they slipped into Edward's room. Closing the door was the
quietest clip they could manage. Arthur's back hit the edge of
the bed. Edward was already pulling at
his shirt, laughing under his breath.
In seconds, their tops were on the floor, bearskin warm from
the climb upstairs, still carrying the salt from the sea.
Arthur's hand rested at Edward's waist.
His grin softened. You know what we should do low
enough for only Edward to hear? Get a tattoo right here on our
waist. Arthur nodded.
I love you. Edward's breast caught, half
from the touch, half from the way Arthur was looking at him.
They kissed again, harder this time, the kind of kiss that left
no room for air and no thoughts of stopping.
Edward's hand slid down, finding Arthur's belt.
Metal shifted close, loosening the boards under foot Creek
softly as they move toward the bed, pulling at each other's
clothes. Mad was the one that had been
building since the first wave that morning.
Arthur's genes were halfway down, Edward's hands on his
hips, skin to skin. Now Arthur's mouse found
Edward's again, and that's when the door opened.
I made sandwich. Edward's mother stood frozen,
eyes wide, hands empty. The smell of bread and cheese
spilled into the room was her shock.
Arthur stepped back so fast he hit the bed frame.
Edward reached for his shirt, yanking it up, the fabric
twisting in his hands. Arthur grabbed for his trousers,
clutching them to his waist. No one spoke, only the sound of
the last plate spinning to a stop on the wooden floor.
The boards creaked overhead. Another creak, and then a laugh.
Only the laughter weren't Arthur's anymore.
Jamie's great uncle blinked. The ceiling above him was the
same. The sound was the same, but now
it was Jamie and Sam, their feet moving across the boards, their
voice muffled through the floor. His hand came up, covering his
face. The first sob stayed in his
chest. The second slipped out.
Jamie closed the door behind them.
The latch caught with a soft click.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The room felt smaller than it had that morning.
Sam sat on the edge of the bed, turned the letter in his hands.
Jamie stayed standing, watching the paper shift between his
friend's finger. You OK?
Jamie asked. Sam nodded once.
Jamie moved closer. The bed dipped under their
weight. The wind moved faintly through
the window. Sam turned his head just enough
to meet Jamie's eyes. Jamie glanced at the letter,
then back to Sam. You really think it was meant
for him? He asked.
Sam nodded. I do.
Jamie's hand moved without him thinking, resting lightly over
Sam's. Sam didn't pull away.
His fingers turn to catch Jamie's, then Sam's gaze dropped
to Jamie's mouth, just for a second.
Jamie leaned in, the space between them close with the
softest brush of lips. Sam's breath caught.
Jamie felt it and kissed him again.
The floorboard under the bed creaked softly as they shifted.
In another time, in the same house, love like this had been a
dangerous secret. Here and now it was as simple as
leaning in. That night the house was quiet.
Jamie lay in bed, half dreaming, when he heard it again, the
faint groan of the attic floorboards.
He pushed the blanket back, sat up, feet on the cold boards,
another step above him and now not there, and another, and
another. Tammy Rose took two paces, torto
door, and stunked for tonight. He let his great uncle have his
memory. Jamie's great uncle's shadow
moved across the attic beams. The air up here was cooler.
He knelt by an old trunk, lifting the lid.
Inside, a scattering of books, a scarf, a folded jumper.
Beneath them, an envelope, cream paper, edges yellowed.
Mr. Edward Hargreaves and Miss Catherine Moore, request the
honor of your presence. Edward's thumb pressed against
the embossed date. His jaw tightened.
He set it aside. Next a photograph.
Two boys in rolled up trousers shirts damped from the sea.
A slip of black edge paper lay beneath it.
Arthur Bennett Funeral service, 12 September 1965.
And then a letter inside a signature he had not seen in
decades. Arthur, Jamie's great uncle, sat
back on his heels, The first letter, the one Sam had brought
still in his pocket. He took it out, laid it on the
attic floor. Beside it he placed a one in the
box. Same fold, same wave mark in the
corner, but the rest not the same.
Different handwriting. His eyes went to the corner of
the page, the signature Arthur. Then he picked up the letter Sam
had brought. Didn't know you kept mine.
He murmured. Funny, it's found its way back
to me. Then his thumb brushed the name
of the letter lying on the floor.
Arthur, I love you. In the quiet of the attic, 2
letters lay beaten past and present.
One he had written, 1 he had received.
The ears between them were filled with everything he could
never say. Below the sea moved as it always
had. Above, the night held the house
still, and in the space between, Edward kept Arthur close.
By late July, the coast had already given him more than he
expected. A kiss he hadn't dared imagine.
A friend who listened when he told the truth, an uncle who
finally let silence crack into memory.
But the scene never stopped at what it gave.
It carried the past back with it and left him facing what he
tried to bury. This summer was not forever.
It was only the stretch between what had broken and what had
weighted beyond the horizon. And before the tide could turn,
there were still things he had to face.
The anger of a friend, the weight of a mistake, and the
truth of what it meant to stay When the world is already
calling you back. This is Shoreline Secrets,
chapter 6. The sea that remembers the phone
buzzed against the table, once, twice, a third time before he
gave in and picked it up. The voice on the other end came
sharp, angry that he hadn't called back.
It was Rosa, always Rosa. She didn't wait for him to
explain, she filled the air herself.
She said his name, Ben, and with it the room shifted.
The last day of school all over again.
The moment he wanted to forget and couldn't.
Rose's voice over the phone. I spoke to him.
He's fine, Jamie, better than you think.
He doesn't hate you, he's just confused.
You don't get to carry it like you broke him.
The name landed heavy, Ben confused.
Yes, hurt maybe, but not ruined, not broken the way Jamie had
feared. Jamie stayed quiet.
He let Rose's words carry the weight for him.
She continued. And don't think I don't know
about that kiss. The boy by the sea, what's his
name? He said nothing, but Rosa didn't
need an answer. She always found what he wasn't
saying. Her tone softened.
After a moment, she reminded him results were still waiting, like
a tide that could turn either way.
Fingers crossed for Cornwall. Rosa said.
The place is you, and you know it.
He closed his eyes. The words felt like Bosa.
Promise and await. And Jamie.
Rosa continued. Don't you dare ghost me again.
The line went quiet, and in the hush that followed, he felt the
sea pressing faintly through the window, a reminder that even
silence was never empty. The day stretched long and
bright, the kind of light that left nothing hidden.
Jamie and Sam walked the clips together, the sea below
restless, steady, like it already knew the things Jamie
hadn't said. For a while, Sam let the silence
carry them. Sam never rushed him.
That was the difference. Where Rosa filled the space, Sam
made room in it, and somewhere between the steps and the salt
air, the memories slipped free. The last day of school, the last
exam, Jamie waiting outside the hall, laughing with his friends.
Then Ben blurting out a truth Jamie knew never coming.
The words replayed now, like a salt water in his throat.
I like you, Ben's words replayed.
The friends had turned sharp, their laughter caught in quick.
Ben tried to laugh with them, but the sound broke halfway.
Then came the look, the step back, the words that stung more
than any fist. Don't touch me, not like that.
That was the last word Jamie said to Ben.
It was too much. The strike came before, he
thought, and with it the silence that followed, louder than the
laughter, louder than the Bruce blooming on Ben's cheek.
Jamie carried it still, like the sea carried its salt, not washed
away, not forgiving, just there and besides Jamie.
Sam said nothing, but his silence held steady.
Like the tide itself. The memory left Jamie raw, like
skin rubbed too thin by salt and wind.
He let it go into the air between them, and Sam didn't
feel the silence, only matched his steps, steady as the tide
itself. By the time the pass bent lower,
Jamie's breathing had evened out.
The clips gave way to the beach track, and the shed came into a
view. One of Edward's old boards
popped against the wall, it's paint worn pale, the wood
darkened by decades of salt and the tail almost hidden in the
grain. 2 waves curled into each other, an old carving, shallow
but deliberate. Jamie crouched, tracing the mark
with his fingertip. The wood was rough, but the line
still held, intertwined, Not one wave, not the other, together or
not at all. Sam knelt beside him, his shadow
falling against the board. He didn't reach out, just
looked, eyes steady where Jamie's hand lingered.
They meant it, Sam said. You don't carve something like
that unless you want it remembered.
Glad the letter found its place, though better there than
forgotten. Sam continued, the words pressed
into Jamie's chest, heavier than the sea air.
The letter held safe in Edward's keeping.
The mark left in the open, one meant to be buried, the other
carved deep enough to outlast silence.
He let his hand fall away from the board, but the shape stayed
with him, the curve of two waves bound in the same time, waiting
for someone else to see from higher on the pass.
A voice carried down through the salt air.
Boys tease. Ready.
Jamie's great uncle Edward had called.
The sound of it broke the hush, gentle but firm, as if Edward
knew exactly when to pull them back.
Jamie and Sam turned from the shed, the marks still lingering
in Jamie's chest, and started off the path toward the house.
The kettle hissed as they stepped inside.
Edward was already waiting at the table, cups set out, steam
rising faint and steady. Beside them, a plate of scones
split and buttered, as if he'd knew tea alone would not be
enough. He didn't ask where they had
been. He only poured push the plate
toward them and let the silence settle, like something earned
the scrape of knife against porcelain.
The soft thought of a cup set down the kind of sounds that
belong to any quiet evening, yet tonight they felt heavier, like
a prelude towards waiting too long.
For a moment Jamie thought it would end there, but then Edward
cleared his throat and the sound of it was heavier than the sea.
He told them of the summer long ago, when the boards were new
and the mark at the tail still sharp.
Arthur was more than a friend, though they never said the word.
It was his mother who ended the pretending, opening the door one
night, finding them too close, the silence after sharper than
any shout. From then on, everything closed
in. Arthur's parents begin pressing
harder. So did his own mother.
Whispers of duty, of family, talk of marriage came quicker
than either boy could breathe. Arthur was the first to bend.
His wedding came sudden, a choice that wasn't really his at
all. Edward said it was for the best.
It gave them both a way to keep living when the world offered no
other. And then came his own wedding.
By then, the pressure had its grip.
A household already waiting. A child expected the paths
chosen for him long before he took the vows.
But months is later, Arthur came back, drunk, desperate.
Standing outside his door in the night, he asked Edward to run
away, just the two of them. Edward looked at Arthur's hands.
He said he could not. Too many lives had been bound by
his by then. Too many eyes watching, too many
rules he already accepted. Arthur left without another
word. The cups cooled between them,
steam fading, And then Edward spoke again, lower now as the
words resisted leaving the letter.
It wasn't his, it was mine. I gave it to him.
And somehow Arthur must have kept it all these years until it
found its way back. The words set heavy between
them, not Arthur's Edwards love written, handed over and carried
back to him long after it was too late.
Jamie felt his chest tighten. Sam's gaze stayed on Edward,
steady, searching, as though willing him to say more, and
Edward did. His voice shook at first, but
then it steadied, like someone who had decided not to hide
anymore. It was different then, Harder.
The word itself was dangerous. We didn't dare speak it, not
even to each other. So we let others choose for us,
And they did. Marriage, children, duty, until
there was nothing left to call ours.
He lifted his eyes then, meeting them both across the table.
But you, you've been given a different time.
Don't waste it hiding. Don't bend the way we bent.
Cherish what you find, even if it scares you.
Even if it costs you. Because the cost of silence.
Edward's hand brushed the rim of his cup, trembling just
slightly. The cost never leaves you.
The kitchen held its breath, steam fading to nothing.
Jamie's eyes burned, but he kept them low, the weight of the
words pressing deeper than shame.
Sam was the one who broke the silence, his voice careful,
warm. Maybe you'd like to visit him
together? Edward nodded once, not quick,
not ashamed, just steady, the kind of nod that carried a
lifetime. The kettle had long gone quiet,
but the sound of the sea filled the room instead.
When Edward rose, he said nothing more, just gathered the
plates with the steady hands of habits.
Jamie excused himself soon after, the weight of the evening
pressing heavier than the walls could hold.
Jamie and Sam climbed the stairs together, Edward's words still
heavy between them. The small room was warm with
lamp light, the window cracked open just enough to let in the
hush of the sea. A book lay face down, a jumper
folded over the chair, the kind of traces that turn to borrowed
space, into something lived in. Jamie sat on the bed.
Sam took the chair by the desk, turning it halfway so he faced
Jamie. For a while, neither spoke.
The silence felt different now, not awkward, but filled with
everything Edward had given them.
The letter, the mark, love written but carried too late.
It hung between them, unspoken but too close to ignore.
Jamie said. Do you think it was love back
then? Sam replied.
If it wasn't, why would he still be holding it now?
Jamie swallowed hard. The word itself felt heavier
here. Not a joke, not a dare, but
something worth keeping. Edward's voice returned in his
mind. Don't waste it hiding.
Cherish what you find. Jamie lifted his eyes, breath
unsteady. I applied here.
Film school results come in August.
He twisted the blanket in his hands, forcing the rest out.
If I make it, it means staying. It means maybe we could have
more than this summer. Sam leaned closer.
His hand rested on Jamie's steady, patient.
It said more than words ever could.
But Jamie wasn't done. The words pressed sharp in his
chest. I love you.
For a heartbeat, he feared he'd gone too far, but Sam's grip
only tightened, his voice low, certain.
I love you too. The words landed like tide
against shore. Not loud, not sudden, but
inevitable. Jamie let out a breath he'd been
holding. Sam didn't move away.
He leaned in closer, their shoulders pressed, their
foreheads brushing in the half light.
The distance between them was a breath, a heartbeat, and then
the sound cracked through the hush, jolting them apart just
enough. Jamie glanced down.
The screen glowed in the dim light.
Mum. For a long moment, he didn't
touch it. The sea hummed through the open
window, the weight of her name pulling heavier than the tide.
Jamie lifted it. Sam lay back on the bed,
watching. Without a word, Jamie crossed to
the window, the cool air brushing his face as he raised
the phone. Jamie, finally.
I was starting to worry, his mom said.
Her voice carried a steadiness he hadn't realized he missed,
and yet, even from across the miles, it pressed heavier than
he wanted to bear. Mum continued.
Schools lifted. Now you just need to come back
for the final words. After that, it's only waiting on
results. The word sank into him like a
tide pulling back the end of one season, the beginning of
awaiting. I spoke to Ben's mom.
He's doing better. Don't call him, not yet, not
until you're back with me. We'll sort it out together.
Jamie's chest tightened at the name.
He glanced back at Sam on the bed, the silence between them
holding steady. Jamie replied.
OK, I'll come next week to bring you home.
It's time, love. The line went still.
Jamie lowered the phone, the sea pressing in through the open
window from the bed. Sam had heard every word, the
speaker louder than he expected. He rose without hesitation,
crossed a small space and wrapped his arms around Jamie
from behind. The embrace was firm, steady,
holding him against the windows light.
No words, just a quiet promise of not letting go.
This is Shoreline Secrets, a quiet gay love story set on the
cliffs of Cornwall, told in tides, in silence, in all the
things we carry and the ones we finally let go.
Over the summer, Jamie came to the coast to get away, but what
he found was something older than the clips.
A boy named Sam with salt on his skin.
A great uncle whose silence held stories and a house that kept
secrets. In the attic, in the waves, in
the space between words, together they uncovered a love
that had been written down, A letter that was sent and somehow
found its way back. A mark carved into wood.
A kiss that wasn't supposed to happen, but did.
But summer doesn't stay. The tide always turns, and
before Jamie goes there are still things to face.
A grave on the hill, a love that was lost, a breakfast before
goodbye, and the letter left open, unfinished, waiting for
the right words. This is Chapter 7, the beginning
of something more. The road narrowed the farther
they drove. Trees gave ways to fields, then
to salt bleached fences. When they stepped out of the
car, the sky stretched wide, Gray but not heavy.
Clouds moved without urgency, the kind of sky that knew how to
wait. No one spoke at first.
The cemetery wasn't marked by a grand gate or a name carved into
stone. It was just there.
Jamie had never been here before, but somehow it felt
familiar, like the air remembered something.
They walked in a slow line. Sam was the first to move,
leading without thinking. He'd been here before, He knew
the steps, the turns. He hesitated once, hand in his
pocket, about to gesture forward, about to say this way.
But Edward didn't wait, he didn't follow.
He turned on his own, quiet and steady, his feet finding the
slope without looking. Sam fell back besides Jamie.
They exchanged no words, only a glance, and together they let
him go ahead. Edward didn't stop.
He didn't pause at the rows of names or trace his fingers over
unfamiliar stones. His past curved gently to the
right, and the grass parted beneath his steps like the land
had always known he'd return. When Edward finally stopped, he
stood in front of a small slate marker.
No cross, no decoration. Just a name, two dates, and a
quiet wait of time. He didn't kneel, didn't touch
the stone. He stood still, as though he
already spoken every word in his heart 1000 times before.
And maybe he had. The silence was not
uncomfortable, it pressed around them gently, not demanding to be
filled, only witnessed. Jamie and Sam stopped a few
paces behind, knowing this moment was not theirs to hold.
They lingered at a respectful distance.
Edward's voice came only when it was ready.
They said it was the water. He didn't sound bitter, didn't
sound angry, just tired, just honest.
A calm morning. He went out early, like always,
alone. They found his board, but not
him. I didn't see him again.
The words didn't echo, they simply landed soft.
Jamie looked down, but not away. Sam's hand brushed against his.
Not to hold, just to say I'm here.
We argued, Edward said. About something.
I can't even remember what, but I told him to leave, told him to
go. I slammed the door.
I didn't mean it, but that's the last thing I gave him.
His posture didn't change, no longer pulled back by pride but
bowed by memory. He died thinking I didn't want
him, Edward said. That's what I carry.
Not that he's gone, but that I let him go thinking he wasn't
loved. Jamie blinked against a sudden
weight behind his eyes. Sam turned slightly toward him,
eyes glassy but calm and still. They said nothing, they just
stayed. I just hope he forgave me.
Edward said softly. The wind paused.
Or maybe it only felt that way. Then Jamie and Sam step back,
not retreating, just allowing space.
Edward didn't move, he remained there, alone.
Was the stone? Jamie didn't know, but he was
starting to understand what it meant to keep someone's name
safe, even after time had tried to wear it down.
They stayed until Edward turned back to them, his eyes clearer
than before, and the wind, still moving, carried something else
now. Not an ending, a release.
They hadn't said it was the last, but everything in the air
knew it was. Jamie ran his fingers along the
edge of his board, gay skimming the waterline like he was
searching for something he couldn't name.
SEM nudged his shoulder. You ready?
Jamie nodded, and they went. The ocean was cooler than it had
been the last few days. Their arms carved familiar
passes through the swell, muscles moving from memory.
It wasn't about impressing, not today, just being here,
together. Then came the wave, not
monstrous, but bigger than most. Strong, sure of itself.
Jamie saw Sam glance toward him, one brow raised.
They both turned, paddled, caught the rise, and for a
moment they were in it, rising. Jamie felt the lift like it had
been built just for them. He locked in, crouched, low,
legs steady. Sam was just ahead, and then he
wasn't. A splash, a flail.
Jamie didn't falter. He rode it all the way in.
He turned, breathless and grinning.
I beat you. For the first time, I actually
beat you. Sam stood, waist deep, hair
plastered to his face, salt streaking his grin.
Only because I let you. Jamie flopped onto the sand, arm
spread wide, bored beside him. Sam followed up a second later
and collapsed next to him, dripping and bright eyed.
They stayed like that, letting the sun do its drying, listening
to nothing but breath and the waves.
Not bad for a last surf. Jamie murmured.
Sam didn't argue, just notch Jamie's arm was his.
Jamie closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sunlight
bake into his cheeks. His chest still rose and fell
from the thrill, but his smile hadn't left.
Beside him, Sam huffled dramatically.
I think the universe glitched. Jamie cracked one eye open.
You riding the wave? Me wiping out?
Sam lifted a handful of damp sand and let it trickle between
his fingers. There's no way that was meant to
happen. Jamie turned his head, amused.
You're really not going to let me have this, are you?
Sam shifted onto 1 elbow, his grin lopsided.
No, the breeze played with Sam's hair, drying it into soft, wild
curls. Jamie watched him for a second
longer than he meant to, then quickly looked away.
Sam flopped onto his back again, sighing.
All right, maybe you did earn it.
Jamie smirked. Then Sam shouted upright.
One more. Jamie blinked.
What? One more wave?
Redemption arc. He was already standing,
brushing sand off his wet suit. You coming?
Jamie laughed, still sprawled on the beach.
Nah, I like ending on a win. Sam pointed dramatically coward
and jogged toward the water. Watch and learn.
Learned and boy. Jamie propped himself up on his
elbow, watching a Sam dove back into sea, all muscle in motion,
and that never backed down fire in him.
The sky was open, the water alive, and Jamie sat there
thinking, God, I'm going to miss this.
They walked barefoot through the dunes, boards tucked under their
arm, sea salt drying on their skin like memories already
fading. A low growl broke the silence.
Jamie looked over. Was that you?
Sam was already laughing. Jamie's stomach answered with a
second rumble, louder this time. They laughed together, easy and
unfiltered, until the cottage came into view.
They pushed open the garden gate and the door welcomed them with
the smell of pancakes. The kitchen was already warm
with the smell of brown butter and Maple syrup, a small stack
of pancakes set in the center of the table, steam still rising
from the top. Next to it, a bowl of sliced
fruit, a little too neatly arranged to be accidental.
Sam reached for the syrup, pausing as he glanced at the
pancakes. Did you make this for me?
He asked, smiling at Edward. Edward shrugged, setting down a
second cup of tea. Could it be for you?
Could be for anyone who was still here this morning.
Jamie smirked into his mug. No one seemed in a rush, the car
wouldn't come until closer to 10 and the hours still belong to
them. Edward finally leaned back in
his chair, watching the two boys over his cup.
If you ever find your way back here.
He said to Sam, tone easy. I'll tell you more about Arthur.
Sam looked up, surprised not just by the offer, but by the
way it was given. Jamie glanced between them,
letting the quiet stretch. Then, as Edward stood to collect
the mugs, Sam glanced at Jamie. It was barely a glance, but it
lingered. Jamie caught it, that small
crease between Sam's brows, like something on set had been
sitting there since they stepped through the front door.
Jamie pushed his chair back. Come on.
Sam stood wordless and followed, the soft thought of their
footstep fading as they disappeared down the corridor.
Edward didn't stop them. The bedroom door clicked softly
behind them. The suitcase stood in the
corner, a few folded clothes is still weighted on the chair.
Jamie sat down first. Sam stayed standing. 4 beat.
Neither spoke, then Sam reached into his jacket pocket and
pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
Edge is slightly worn, like it had been handled more than once.
He held it out without a word. Jamie looked at it, then at Sam.
What's this? A letter?
Sam said, voice low. But don't read it now.
Jamie blinked. Why?
Sam gave a small breath of laugh.
Because if you read it now, I might not get out of here alive.
Jamie took it gently, fingers brushing Sam's.
He didn't open it, instead he said it carefully inside his
journal and looked back down. You really wrote me a letter?
He asked, half teasing, half stunned.
Sam shrugged. I guess I wanted to say
something the way Edward did, just in case.
Jamie stood, moved closer. They didn't rush.
No declarations, no promises, just a soft tension between two
people who didn't need to say everything all at once.
Then a kiss. Jamie's hand curled lightly into
Sam's shirt. Sam didn't pull away.
And somewhere beyond the open window, the car turned into the
lane. Sam pulled back first.
That's her, isn't it? Jamie nodded.
Quiet. Yeah.
They didn't say anything else, just gathered the morning in
their lungs and walked out together.
A few days later, in London, inside a talked away coffee
shop, the air smelt of cinnamon and early mornings.
Jamie stirred his drink, eyes half lidded.
A yawn escaped before he could stop it.
Rosa raised an eyebrow. You OK there, zombie boy?
Didn't sleep. Jamie mumbled.
Rosa leaned in, elbows on the table.
Jet leg from Cornwall. He gave her a look.
It's still England mental. Jet leg then?
She teased, watching him closely.
Been texting the boy, haven't you?
Jamie didn't answer, but the slight the curve of his lips
betrayed him. Rosa grinned.
Thought so. What's his name again?
He finally said it out loud. Sam, hmm.
She sipped her Chai. Sam, who makes you smile in your
sleep? Jamie chuckled.
Shut up, make me. She said, grinning then with a
teasing look. So when are you going to
introduce him to me? Jamie gave a quiet laugh,
rubbing at the corner of his eye.
He looked like someone running on two hours of sleep and a
memory he wasn't ready to let go of.
I already miss him. He murmured, then caught
himself. That sounded dumb.
Rosa waved it off. It sounds honest.
Jamie reached into his pocket, not for show, but without
thinking. Inside, the edges of a folded
letter was already softened from being open too many times.
He didn't hand it over, didn't say much, but Rosa understood
anyway. The letter had moved him, that
much was clear. And whatever it said, it had
been enough to keep him awake until 3:00 AM, staring at the
ceiling, reading it again in the dark.
You haven't written back yet, have you?
Rosa asked gently. Jamie shook his head.
Why not? I don't know how to say
everything. Rosa leaned back, serious now.
Just say something. You won't get another Sam.
Jamie lowered his eyes to his coffee cup.
For once, he didn't argue. Outside, the city was beginning
to wake. Inside, he was already thinking
about what to write. Now.
Back in his room, the silence felt thicker.
The walls were the same, but he returned different.
Everything felt a little out of sync.
Somewhere in a drawer, his train ticket was folded next to the
letter, the one that had received three days ago.
The one he read too fast, too many times.
Jamie sat upright with a pen in hand, trying to begin.
He crossed out so many beginnings that the paper had
creased under the weight of them.
None of it felt enough. He paused, chewing lightly on
the cap of the pen, when the screen of his phone lit up
beside him. A new message, just a few words,
casual but unmistakably familiar.
Sam checking in, Reaching out. He let the pen fall and picked
up the phone. They texted for a while.
Nothing heavy. It felt like holding on to
something soft and warm, like slipping back into a rhythm.
Eventually, Sam's reply slowed. The screen went dark.
Jamie placed the phone on his chest and leaned back against
the pillows. The room was dim now, just a low
glow of the bedside lamp pulling around him.
The letter still waited beside him, blank in all the ways that
mattered. He meant to pick up the pen
again. He meant to try just one more
line. But his eyes closed 1st, and
somewhere in the quiet between their last message in the
morning, he drifted off, the letter still unfinished on the
sheets. The morning was already halfway
over when Jamie stirred. Light poured through the thin
curtains of his London bedroom. A soft knock came, followed by
the creak of his door. His mom peeked in.
Did you forget what today is? Jamie blinked, the word still
foggy in his head. She stepped inside, mug in hand.
The results. Shall we check?
It took him a second to catch up, to remember the application,
the long nights, the essays, the doubt.
He reached for his laptop with a sleepy groan and sat up, wiping
at his eyes. She stood beside him as the page
loaded a heartbeat, then accepted.
His mom's hand flew over her mouth with a joyful gasp, and
Jamie let out a laugh, startled, breathless, Real.
She kissed his forehead, congratulated him in a voice
that cracked and left him alone to take it in.
Jamie sank back against the pillows, eyes still on the
screen. A slow smile found its way to
his face, not just for the acceptance, but for the way it
made things possible again. Beside him, the letter still sat
unfinished, it's corners curled, it's ink smudged.
He looked at it for a long moment, then instead of reaching
for the pen, he reached for his phone.
His fingers hovered briefly over the screen, then tapped.
Calling Sam. It rang once, then again, and
then he heard Sam's voice. This was Shoreline Secrets.
It wasn't an ending, it was the start of something quietly new.
Jamie and Sam stories didn't close at the shore, it just
turned its first page. What began with an attic and an
old letter became something more.
A promise carried forward, a love returned.
A future not yet written, but finally within reach.
Thank you for being part of this slow, soft unfolding, for
listening through the silences, the waves, the truths that took
their time. If this story stayed with you,
let us know in the comments. Like, follow, and subscribe to
gay audiobooks. The full Shoreline secret is
coming soon, ready for relistening or gifting to
someone who needs a story like this.
And there's more on the way. New voices are waiting to be
heard. Until then, keep your heart
open, keep your words honest, and never underestimate the
stories that find you.