Chap­ter X opens on a day brushed with sun­light and sea breeze, yet Mrs. Mor­timer feels the weight of soli­tude. Dressed in the sub­dued shades of mourn­ing, she and her son John­nie appear almost mis­placed amidst Brighton’s col­or and laugh­ter. Years have passed since she chose to leave Nat­ter­ley, not mere­ly to be near­er to George’s office, as she had writ­ten, but to cre­ate dis­tance between her heart and its unre­solved past. Prox­im­i­ty to work was the shield; emo­tion­al sur­vival was the cause. Her life has grown qui­et, shaped around John­nie and rou­tine, yet mem­o­ry remains unqui­et. Each foot­step by the sea echoes with the voic­es of choic­es once made in silence. Her calm pres­ence on the bench hides the inner dialogue—regret dressed as rea­son, love hid­den under duty. While chil­dren play and waves lap the shore, her thoughts stay teth­ered to what was nev­er said.

As she sits watch­ing the prom­e­nade, her still­ness masks a grow­ing unease. A cou­ple approach­es, and instinct draws her atten­tion to the man’s walk, his car­riage, the care­less glance he casts at his com­pan­ion. It isn’t until they are clos­er that she sees more than coincidence—she sees resem­blance. Her body stills, her eyes nar­row just slight­ly. That famil­iar tilt of the head, the rhythm in his steps—it unset­tles her. Some­thing about him brush­es against mem­o­ry like a whis­per. He could be the age George once was when the world felt full of deci­sions still wait­ing to be made. The woman beside him, young and effort­less­ly cheer­ful, seems unaware of the sub­tle dra­ma unfold­ing in Mrs. Mortimer’s gaze.

He looks toward her, briefly, with­out recog­ni­tion. The glance holds no weight for him. But for Mrs. Mor­timer, it lingers, stir­ring a thou­sand things left unspo­ken. She does not speak, does not move. Hope, though nev­er declared, flick­ers in the brief space between recog­ni­tion and igno­rance. When he turns away, the silence grows loud in her chest. It’s not pain, exactly—more like the ache of being for­got­ten by some­one who nev­er real­ly knew you. In that moment, sur­round­ed by move­ment and laugh­ter, she becomes still­ness itself, a mark­er of time paused and untouched.

John­nie sits near­by, play­ing with stones, unaware of his mother’s frag­ile still­ness. She watch­es him too, won­der­ing what mem­o­ries he will car­ry into adult­hood. Will he some­day sit by the sea and search pass­ing faces for the shape of some­one half-remem­bered? Will he under­stand that love is not always loud, and that some­times let­ting go means nev­er hav­ing been noticed at all? These ques­tions hov­er like mist over the ocean—thick enough to feel, but impos­si­ble to grasp. She knows the world will pull him for­ward, far from this qui­et bench and her silent reflec­tions. And so, she says noth­ing. She lets him throw his stones into the surf, watch­ing each splash as if it could erase a moment or restore one that nev­er tru­ly formed.

As the cou­ple dis­ap­pears into the crowd, Mrs. Mor­timer remains seat­ed, eyes trained on the empti­ness they leave behind. There is no tear, no sigh—only the soft tight­en­ing of her mouth, the bare­ly per­cep­ti­ble shift in pos­ture. She is alone again, yet more than alone—she is dis­placed. Not in space, but in time. Her mourn­ing is not just for a hus­band or a past life, but for the ver­sion of her­self who once imag­ined end­ings to sto­ries that nev­er got their mid­dle. Around her, Brighton con­tin­ues with its usu­al charm. Chil­dren laugh, gulls cry, and the carousel spins with­out pause. But Mrs. Mor­timer stays still, not wait­ing, just remem­ber­ing.

The sto­ry clos­es with no grand reunion, no rev­e­la­tion or apol­o­gy. What remains is a woman who knows that not every sto­ry ends with closure—some sim­ply stop. She has loved, she has let go, and she has car­ried on, even when mem­o­ry pressed against her like salt in the sea air. And that, in its own qui­et way, is its own kind of tri­umph.