A lone figure stands above the churning sea, its pale skin ghost-like in the ferocious wind. It is a girl. Her long, dark hair whips this way and that, as though possessed, and her striking green eyes are empty, completely void of emotion.

She takes a step forward and the soil crunches beneath her trainers. She does not hear it. The wind bites at the bare skin of her face and hands. She does not feel it.

A trembling hand stretches out, hovering perpendicular to the cliff. Held between her slender fingers is a necklace; old yet elegant, its worn gold locks cushion an oval pendant of ruby. So simple in appearance, the girl muses at the intricacy of the emotion with which it was gifted to her.

She remembers a time when her mother was well, when she used to play games with her after school and help her with her homework. The older woman would brush her hair and give her hugs to make various pains go away. And it worked. There was never a dull moment with her mother in the room. She would always find something for the two of them to do.

Another memory comes to the girl, of a few years later. Her mother had stopped playing games after school and helping her with homework. There were no more hugs or tender moments. Only quiet.

'You must not worry your mother,' they said. You must leave her in peace.'

But this didn't sit well with the girl. She loved her mother. She wanted to care for her too. Everyday thereafter she waited on her disease-torn loved one. She did not play on the playground with her friends. She did not care about the schoolwork. Her life was her mother. Everything else paled in importance in the young girl's eyes.

Then came the day that she had hoped would never come, the one that she had nightmares about which made her cling to her mother all the more.

The girl awoke in the work and tattered armchair beside her mother's bed that she had claimed as her own, to find the frail form at her side unmoving. Still. She did not cry or call out. Simply, silence. And not much has changed.

Cool ocean spray jerks the girl back into the present. Her delicate face turns slowly down towards her outstretched hand and its treasure – a gift from beyond the grave. She had found it whilst sorting through her mother's belongings along with a note:

'I know you won't find this until I'm gone and I'm sorry I had to leave. Just know I love you and that I'm so very thankful for all you've done. Please don't mourn for me, live your life the way you would have had I not taken up your time. Let me go.'

Cold, wet raindrops start to fall, mixing with the salty tears the girl finally allows herself to cry.

'It's not that easy!' she thinks to herself. 'I can't just 'let go'.'

But then she remembers the way her mother was back before her illness. The strength and confidence with which she approached life astounded those around her and it was a trait many admired, her daughter included.

The raging sea urges her on, its monstrous waves smashing against the rocks at the base of the cliff. The dark clouds above her begin to empty themselves completely and the fierce wind grows stronger still.

'If she could face the world confidently, why can't I? She had more to deal with than me. Maybe I can do it. Maybe I can just let go.'

She sniffles, scrunching up her slightly too long nose in thought. Slowly, her arm stiffens as though held out with new purpose. Her eyes examine the timeworn ornament her now-clammy fingers hold for the last time. And then, with a determined gleam in her eye, she tips her hand deliberately, bringing her palm face down to the ocean.

The pendant falls down to meet the crashing waves, its gold gleaming momentarily. And then it is lost, with nothing but the outstretched hand to suggest that it ever existed.

Slowly the fingers curl into the girls palm and her arm falls to her side. A somewhat relieved sigh escapes her lips as an enormous weight lifts from the girls form, far superior to that of the necklace, and yet so entwined with the memories and people associated with the piece of jewellery.

'She said not to mourn. She said the let her go. I think that it's about time I listened.'

With a soft and sad smile the girl berates herself quietly, her hair still lashing about in the wind. Her eyes shine now, with hope and tentative anticipation as she considers all she's missed and all she still has the chance to do. She starts to shiver as the strength of the wind finally penetrates her brain. She has started to feel. She will learn to listen. There is hope for her yet.