Could she remember hearing anything at all?
She rocked forward, pushing herself to stand. How long had she been sitting there, under the perceived safety of the tree? She could not recall, but she faintly remembered feeling tired. She took in a long, deep breath. Had she always done this? She forced the air from her lungs. It felt like nothing.
Am I dead? She thought, looking out over the rolling tide. No, there would be cliffs if I were dead. Cliffs and mist and Ma. She did not really understand where she was, or what was happening to her, but she knew she was not dead. She couldn't be. Ma would be here, holding her hand, leading her to wherever it was dead things went. She definitely was not dead.
With silent determination, Letha wiggled her toes. She looked down. She flexed her calves, bent her knees, moved her hips gently left, then right. She lifted her shoulders, rolled them back, relaxed them down. She lifted her hands again, extending her arms before her as she moved and stretched her fingers one by one. She was not dead, and she was not broken.
The waves crashing against the sand was too loud, still. With confidence in her body, now, the woman stepped out towards the water. It reached towards her, then retreated. It repeated this dance as she approached, seeming to beckon her in. She stood at the edge of the tide, foamy water gently trickling over her shoes and soaking the hem of her skirt.
She did not know how long she stood there, but she finally bent down and touched the water. It felt, once more, like nothing.