They drown because they can’t let go of what’s already gone.

Sals has just watched two people die. Not because the flood was stronger than them. Because they turned back. The woman's hand brushed his fingers for one instant, then she was gone. He floats in the wreckage afterward, lungs burning, and something settles into him like sediment. He sees it plainly: they were not defeated by the water. They were defeated by their grip.

The line notices something quiet and hard. That loss can happen twice. Once when the thing goes. Again when you refuse to let it go. The chest, the papers, the room — the flood had already decided. The holding on changed nothing about what was lost. It only changed what else was lost with it.

You know this feeling, probably. Something is already gone — a version of yourself, a relationship, a plan you built carefully — and part of you is still in that room, waist-deep, reaching. Not because holding on will bring it back. Because letting go feels like agreeing it's really over.

What are you still gripping that the water has already taken?