The Offering of the Ocean

The next morning, the world seemed washed clean, as if the storm had purged the air of its fury. With the first light of dawn, it had receded, leaving behind nothing but a sky of clear blue and a silence almost supernatural.

Éloi woke later than usual, still groggy from a night filled with feverish dreams, of which he retained only a few fragmented images — a haunting melody, a fiery red mane dancing in the sea breeze, and green eyes staring at him through the waves.

Standing by his window, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, he surveyed the damage. The sea, now calm as if nothing had happened, had thrown heaps of seaweed and debris up to the first houses of the village. In the distance, he could already see a few figures moving about, repairing a damaged roof, picking up broken branches.

After his breakfast, Éloi dressed warmly and went outside. The air was crystalline, full of iodine, with that particular scent that follows great storms — a mix of salt, fresh seaweed, and damp earth. On the beach, the sight was striking. The ocean had overturned everything, reshaping the shore, carving out new hollows in some places, forming piles of sand and pebbles in others. Pieces of driftwood, ropes torn from some boat, debris of all kinds littered the sand for dozens of meters.

Éloi walked slowly, observing the chaos with the expert eye of one who had seen hundreds of storms. For him, these mornings had something fascinating about them — like the sea, in its nocturnal rage, casting a portion of its secrets onto the shore. He bent down to pick up a perfectly polished piece of blue glass, turning it between his fingers to admire how the morning light passed through it.

It was then that he saw it, half-buried under a heap of brown seaweed, just a few meters from the shore. A dark object, strangely foreign to the chaos around it. His heart skipped a beat. Despite the distance, he recognized that characteristic shape.

He approached, suddenly feverish, and knelt in the damp sand. Gently, his trembling hands cleared away the slimy seaweed from the violin. The wood, saturated with saltwater, seemed to have aged a hundred years — but the scroll remained intact, finely carved, as if the years spent in the ocean had respected its grace.

Éloi lifted it with infinite care, as if fearing it would disintegrate between his fingers. The instrument was heavy with saltwater. He turned it over and held his breath, as if the slightest movement might erase the moment.

There, engraved in the wood of the back, two initials were still perfectly legible despite the erosion: M.L.

"Maëlle Legoff," he whispered, barely audible.

The world around him seemed to suddenly fade away. The roar of the waves, the cries of the seagulls... everything became muffled, distant. He could hear nothing but the rapid beat of his own heart.

A wave of memories overwhelmed him, brutal — a young girl with fiery hair, a crystalline laugh cutting through the crash of the ocean, slender fingers running over the strings of a violin.

Éloi stood frozen, the violin in his hands, his eyes fixed on the engraved initials. It was impossible. The instrument had disappeared nearly half a century ago, carried away by the sea along with the one who played it. And yet... it was here, cast ashore by the waves, like a forgotten message.

A shiver ran through him. Slowly, he stood up, clutching the violin to him like a wounded bird. Around him, the beach remained unchanged, indifferent to the trembling that shook his soul.

A seagull cried out in the sky, cutting through the silence. Reality returned, harsh.

The walk back seemed interminable. His legs were heavy, a strange weakness had seized him. The buried memories, more vivid than they had been in decades, swirled in his mind. Maëlle, running barefoot on this same beach. Her freckles, more numerous with every summer. And her green eyes, which would light up when she spoke of music.

Back at home, Éloi gently placed the violin on his workbench. The saltwater dripped slowly, forming a pool on the polished wood. He sat down, hypnotized by the Mirecourt, if his memory served him right. A gift from his father, bought in Paris to celebrate his fifteenth birthday.

"How is this possible ?" he murmured, stroking the damaged wood.

The instrument should have been shattered long ago. And yet, despite the water, the rocks, the years... it was here. Worn, but recognizable, almost intact in its essential structure.

Éloi stood up, grabbed an old notebook, and began to carefully record the condition of the violin, as he did with all his restorations. His eyes were those of an experienced luthier, but his heart was beating to the rhythm of another time.

It would be a long job that would take weeks, perhaps months. The wood would need to dry slowly, very slowly, repair, revarnish, rebuild. A titanic task, but not impossible. Not for him.

By noon, he had not left his workshop. His stomach growled in protest, but he ignored it. He had carefully placed the violin on a bed of absorbent towels, surrounded by silica gel packets. A crucial first step.

Knocks at the door pulled him from his concentration. Madame Kervella, again. Worried.

"The storm damaged the roof of the Café du Port," she said. "The men are looking for hands to help."

Normally, Éloi would have gone. But today...

"Not today, Marie. I found something... that requires all my attention."

The old lady glanced inside and saw the violin, her face darkening.

"I see... The ocean sent you an invitation."

These words resonated strangely within him. He closed the door gently.

The afternoon passed in studious calm. He consulted old lutherie books, took notes on restoration techniques, and drew diagrams. Such cases were rare, but not unheard of.

As evening came, he went out onto the terrace. The sea, once again calm, sparkled under the last rays of sunlight. Éloi gazed at the horizon, filled with unanswered questions.

Why now ? Why this violin ? How had it survived ?

And why did his heart beat like this, as it had for his first love ?

When he returned, night had fallen. He lit his lamp and resumed his observation. Carefully, he removed a small seashell embedded in the wood. His fingers brushed over the initials, and he knew. This violin had not come back by chance.

"I’m going to fix you," he whispered. "I promise you, Maëlle."

That night, he went to sleep late. And for the first time in a long time, his dreams were not filled with regret, but with a violin’s melody, on a summer beach, bathed in hope.