The storm hit just past midnight.
Thunder cracked like bones breaking. Wind tore at the shutters. The sea had turned feral—no longer a background presence, but a beast.
Lina stood barefoot in the hallway, hair damp from sweat, fists clenched at her sides. She had dreamt again. Not of him this time—but of herself. Screaming, pushing, running. Not from danger, but toward it.
She padded down the stairs, flinching as a shutter banged loose.
Milo was in the kitchen, filling a kettle. The generator hummed in the background, casting flickering light over the counters.
"You heard it too," he said without turning.
"I felt it," she said. "In my chest."
He nodded. "Storms here are like that. They remember."
She leaned against the doorframe. "Do you believe that? That place, remember?"
"I think we put memory into everything we touch," he said. "Walls, beaches, wine glasses. That doesn't mean they talk back. But maybe they echo."
He poured hot water over tea leaves and slid a mug toward her. She didn't drink.
"There was more," she said.
Milo waited.
"In the memory," she said slowly. "There was a rock. Behind the house. Wet from the rain. He slipped, Milo. I think he slipped. And I didn't reach for him."
He studied her, unreadable. "Could you have?"
"I don't know." Her voice cracked. "I think I froze. I think I wanted to scare him. Just once. Make him feel small. And then I panicked."
"You're remembering details. That's something."
Lina's hand trembled as she picked up the tea. "I can't trust my own mind. What if I've turned my guilt into a narrative?"
He leaned forward. "You think this is a story?"
"I used to turn everything into one. When you write long enough, your instincts get... warped. You stop reacting like a person. You observe. Even your own grief."
"That's not evil," he said. "That's survival."
Silence pulsed between them, tense and intimate. The rain slammed against the windows. A branch scraped along the roof like fingernails.
"I found something," he said finally.
She blinked. "What?"
"Down by the waterline. Behind the old boat shed." He stood. "Come with me."
She followed him through the hall, out the back door. The wind nearly knocked her sideways, but she stayed upright. The flashlight beam jerked wildly in Milo's hand as they moved through the storm.
Behind the shed, he crouched.
There, half-buried in wet leaves, was a camera. Old. Waterlogged. But recognizable.
"My camera," she breathed.
He looked at her. "You said you never brought it back here after that night."
"I didn't." Her breath hitched. "I don't remember bringing it."
Milo stood slowly, eyes on her face. "We'll dry it out. See what's on it."
Lina nodded, though her pulse skittered wildly. "What if I don't want to know?"
"Too late for that," he said gently.
Lightning split the sky, and for a moment, the world was awash in white.
They stood in it, soaked to the bone, old ghosts pressing closer by the second.