The One That Floats

They had all gone in together, laughing, splashing, forgetting where the shore was. The sea accepted them easily, as it always does at first. Arms churned. Voices rose. Someone shouted something that sounded like courage but wasn’t.

The duck floated.

Bright yellow. Unconcerned. A ridiculous witness to the human habit of overestimating ourselves.

While they argued about direction and distance, the duck bobbed closer, riding each small wave as if it had rehearsed for this exact moment. It didn’t panic. It didn’t plan. It didn’t try to be brave. It simply did what it was made to do — stay afloat.

One of them noticed it first and laughed, a sharp sound edged with fear. Another reached for it, missed, splashed too hard. The duck tipped, righted itself, drifted on.

Funny how the smallest thing can become a marker.
Funny how survival sometimes looks like silliness.

The water pulled. The horizon didn’t answer. But the duck stayed visible, a bright dot saying here, here, this way, without words, without effort. It didn’t rescue them. It reminded them.

Slow down.
Float first.
Panic later.

When they finally turned back toward shore — movements smaller, breaths measured — the duck followed for a while, then didn’t. It had other places to be. Other moments to witness.

Long after they reached land, coughing and swearing and laughing too loud, the duck remained where it was: afloat, faithful to its simple purpose.

Some things survive because they are clever.
Some because they are strong.

And some —
because they never forget how to float.

Word count: 268

💫Maggie

The Afterlove Voice 💫