The sea stretched out before me, an endless expanse of churning blue that mirrored the tumultuous sky. It felt almost alive—roaring, rolling, restless—yet its voice came to me in a soft, rhythmic surge. SPLASH. The waves crashed onto the wet sand with steady persistence, as if trying to erase every footprint, every trace of those who dared step upon this threshold between land and the unknown.
I stood there, a solitary figure on the shore of a new beginning, my coat billowing slightly in the biting coastal wind. It smelled of salt and distant storms. The air tasted metallic against my tongue, sharp enough to sting, steady enough to ground me.
My thoughts had been a tangled thread for days—ever since the train first lurched forward, pulling me away from everything familiar. The rattle of the tracks had echoed endlessly in my skull, each clack a reminder that I was willingly hurtling toward change. I had stared out the window for hours, watching landscapes blur and dissolve into one another, but nothing had quieted the hum of anxiety beneath my ribs.
Despite the doubt.
Despite the fear.
Despite the heavy ache of uncertainty.
The reality was inescapable: I was truly here now. In Flo Marina.
I curled my fingers tighter around the handle of the old suitcase beside me. It was worn at the edges, the leather faded, the metal clasps slightly tarnished. It wasn't heavy because of what was inside—it was heavy with everything I'd left behind, everything I'd chosen to shed. Perhaps that was why it felt like a final tether to an identity that no longer fit me. The old me would have stood frozen on that train platform, too afraid to take the first step. Too concerned about propriety to chase an uncertain future. That woman would have bowed under the weight of expectation and stayed exactly where life had placed her.
But I wasn't her anymore.
What's certain is that this moment—this quiet, trembling act of rebellion—was forged in the fire of memories that still burned hot against the insides of my mind.
Had it not been for the shabby inn I once stayed in with Eiser, with its creaking floorboards and damp, suffocating air… or the surreal, gilded cages like President Harold's Manor that dressed up chaos in gold leaf… or that old, secluded cottage of Eiser's in some unknown corner of the world, where the world briefly felt distant and manageable… I wouldn't be standing here.
Those contrasting places, that trembling between luxury and decay, had taught me resilience. They cracked my delicate shell. They pushed me to see how much I had been clutching my own chains.
The idea of coming here by myself would never have entered my mind six months ago. Yet here I stood, wind lashing against my face, sea spray clinging to my skin, having walked away from everything that once defined me.
A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me, as if the ocean had exhaled it onto the shore. My knees bent instinctively, pulling me closer to the ground as I rested one hand on the cool, damp sand. My gaze drifted to the water's edge, where the waves painted fleeting white lines that vanished almost as soon as they appeared.
In that moment, an image flickered in my mind—a dark, gloved hand reaching out to me from a memory, offering silent reassurance. That hand, that presence, had pushed me to grow. Had forced me to confront truths I never wanted to face. Had reshaped the person I believed I was capable of becoming.
I rose again, the suitcase handle firm in my grasp. Alone in Flo Marina, yes—but no longer hollow, no longer fragile. Something within me had shifted on the long journey here.
The SPLASH of the water felt like a cleansing, each wave washing away another thin layer of hesitation.
The truth was more complicated than courage or curiosity. I simply couldn't sit still after Eiser told me everything about the divorce… and after seeing Grandma so frail, lying in that dim room with her breaths shallow and her voice fading. Those two moments had fallen into my life like stones into still water—small at first, but their ripples had reached every part of me. They stirred up urgency I didn't know I possessed.
I stretched my hand toward the shallow water—SPLOOSH. The coldness bit at my skin, yet the glowing blue reflections danced playfully across my fingertips, as if welcoming me or testing me.
Although I still couldn't define the exact thought that propelled me here, the feeling had been undeniable: I needed to come.
I had to see it with my own eyes—the new hotel site that was little more than dirt and steel foundations, and this strange city where so many threads of my crisis converged. It was the physical manifestation of everything that had spun my life into disarray.
I crouched down, my coat brushing the sand as the grains clung stubbornly to the fabric. I knew I looked undignified, but dignity felt like a distant luxury now. I was searching—not for something as simple as clarity, but for any sign that this upheaval had meaning. Searching for answers hidden in the mirrored surface of the waves.
I pulled my hand back, the cool droplets sliding down my fingers—DRIP. DRIP.
The beads of water glittered like tiny fragments of the sky.
My old life was gone. That truth echoed softly but firmly within me. Brief images rose unbidden: the quiet mornings in Eiser's cottage, sitting across from him while holding warm cups of coffee; the silence so comfortable it felt like an embrace. Those memories were soft and warm—too warm—juxtaposed against the stark present.
With a deep breath that scraped against the cold air, I forced myself to RISE.
Not to flee from grief or cling to nostalgia—
but to face the unfamiliar future waiting beyond this horizon.
---
This section of the story deepens the narrator's emotional reasons for traveling.
The idea of coming here by myself would never have even entered my head. Not before. The SPLASH of the water felt like a cleansing, each wave a cool hand smoothing away the residue of hesitation clinging stubbornly to my spirit. The sound—steady, rhythmic, almost approving—echoed somewhere deep inside me.
The truth was, I couldn't sit still after Eiser told me the whole story about the divorce… and after seeing Grandma so ill, pale as wax, her breaths shallow like fading candlelight. Those two events had struck me with the force of stones falling into still water. Their ripples had spread outward, carving over every part of my life, leaving no corner untouched. Urgency bloomed in their wake—raw, undeniable, desperate. They were the true catalyst, not the gentle illusion of independence I tried to project.
I reached out my hand toward the shallow water near the shore. SPLOOSH. The icy cold shocked my skin, waking something sluggish in my chest. Glowing blue reflections shimmered atop the dark surface, dancing faintly across my fingers like ethereal lights, distant yet comforting.
As a result—although I still couldn't put it neatly into words—I felt a piercing, absolute conviction that I had to come here. To this shore, this strange new city, this place where my life's threads seemed to converge in knots of tension.
It was an imperative I couldn't reason away. I had to see with my own eyes the bare-bones construction site of the new hotel—the project that had set off a chain reaction of chaos in my world. And I had to see this particular city, Flo Marina, not through someone else's retelling or reports, but with my own senses. This place was more than a destination; it was the physical embodiment of the crisis that had swallowed everything whole.
I was crouched down now, my coat gathering damp sand along its edges, looking utterly undignified. But dignity felt like a distant concern; I needed this grounding moment more than I needed pristine hems. I stared into the unfamiliar, shimmering waves as though they might reveal some hidden truth, some reflection of the future beyond the murkiness of my doubts.
Finally, I pulled my hand back from the surface. The cool, salty droplets clung to my skin before tracing slow paths downward—DRIP. DRIP. Each drop felt heavier than water, as though carrying a memory, a consequence, a warning.
I knew my old life was gone. That certainty weighed on me with a quiet ache. Images flashed: the sweet, fragile intimacy of that old cottage of Eiser's—wherever it was—the shared warmth of mornings spent seated across from each other in bed, sipping coffee in perfect silence. Those memories were tender, soft as worn linen, yet they contrasted so brutally with the sharp, cold reality surrounding me now.
With a deep breath, I forced myself to RISE. My legs trembled slightly, but the resolve inside me stood firm. I wasn't here to mourn the life I'd lost. I was here to confront what lay ahead, to meet the unfamiliar future that had compelled me across miles and miles of uncertain road and rail.
I walked away from the water and toward the illuminated core of Flo Marina. The city's lights glimmered like scattered jewels across the darkened streets. I slowed for a moment, taking in the older architecture—the arching bridges, the aged towers, the vast canal running like a dark artery through the city. It must be breathtaking during the day, when the sun hits the water and the stonework reveals its golden hues.
But night had swallowed the sky entirely. It was far too late for sightseeing or wandering to the half-built hotel grounds. I had lingered by the ocean longer than I'd intended.
First, I needed to find a place to stay for the night. That was the most pressing matter. Lodging first—then I could unravel the complicated tangle of business, family, and fate waiting for me.
The cobbled streets were uneven under my expensive leather boots as I navigated the winding roads, each step echoing faintly against the quiet buildings. The city was peaceful, but not silent—just breathing softly, like a creature half-asleep.
Suddenly, a sound cut sharply through the evening air: a piercing WHISTLE.
I stopped instinctively, my head snapping toward the source. Irritation flared—hot, immediate. What now? Why whistle at me like I was some stray animal?
Three men lounged near a building entrance, two perched lazily on a barrel and the third leaning against the wall. Their postures were loose, casual—too casual. Clearly locals, passing their evening with idle chatter and idle eyes.
"Hey there!" one of them called out, his voice dripping with unwelcome interest.
Their low voices rose behind me.
"See? I told you she was pretty," one remarked, followed by a SNICKER.
"She's leaving because of you, you bastard," another teased, setting off another ripple of SNICKERs.
Heat rose in my cheeks—not the warmth of flattery but the prickling burn of discomfort. I forced a decisive TURN, lifting my chin high as I resumed walking with quick, controlled steps. Their laughter buzzed in the air behind me like flies.
Their conversation shifted, drifting away from me to the state of the city.
"There've been more out-of-towners these last few years… cruise business and all."
"She's definitely not local."
"We'll see even more of them running around once that fancy new hotel is built."
"Oh! So this place'll be crawling with beautiful women from big cities…"
Then—
"Hey, where are you going?"
The sound of someone pushing off the ground—SPRING—shattered the ease of their banter. Footsteps followed, hurried, closing in.
"Hey, where are you going?"
"We should help this poor lost lady."
"Wait here, I'll show you something fun—"
My pulse spiked. I quickened my pace, every instinct sharpening.
My arrival in Flo Marina was starting exactly as I feared: exposed, alone, and attracting the wrong kind of attention.
I needed to disappear into the heart of the city—and fast.
The air in this new city was heavy with the smell of sea salt and old stone—a mix that clung to my clothes and settled uneasily in my lungs. I turned away from the two men whose SNICKERing trailed behind me, glaring at the cobblestones instead of giving them even a sliver of attention.
"SNICKER," one of them cackled loudly. "SEE? I TOLD YOU SHE WAS PRETTY."
"SHE'S LEAVING BECAUSE OF YOU, YOU BASTARD," the other shot back, their taunting laughter scraping at my nerves. "SNICKER."
I kept walking. Kept breathing. Kept pretending I didn't hear them. The more I ignored them, the more their conversation drifted elsewhere—still obnoxiously loud, still impossible to escape.
"THERE HAVE BEEN AN INCREASE IN OUT-OF-TOWNERS FOR THE LAST FEW YEARS…"
"…BECAUSE OF THE CRUISE BUSINESS AND SUCH."
"SHE'S CLEARLY NOT A LOCAL."
My feet throbbed with every step, the ache spreading up my legs, but stopping wasn't an option. Not with their voices carrying so easily in the evening damp. As I moved farther down the street, their idle talk shifted to something painfully familiar.
"WE'LL SEE EVEN MORE OF THEM RUNNING AMOK WHEN THAT FANCY HOTEL GETS BUILT."
"OH! SO THIS PLACE WILL BE CRAWLING WITH BEAUTIFUL WOMEN FROM BIG CITIES…"
Then—sharp, sudden—a change in tone:
"HEY, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"
The false sincerity in one voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"WE SHOULD HELP THIS POOR LOST LADY," he said, dripping mock concern.
And then the other chimed in with something darker, his hand raised as though beckoning:
"WAIT HERE, I'LL SHOW YOU SOMETHING FUN—"
"HUH?" The word slipped out of me, half confusion, half disgust.
I lowered my head and walked faster, pushing my burning feet harder than they wanted to go. The evening sky had soured into a deep, oppressive blue, the clouds peeling back just enough for the pale moon to bleed through. Everything felt colder. Narrower. Unwelcoming.
"YOU MUST BE JOKING," I muttered under my breath, pulse escalating. I had to get away from the voices, from the shrinking streets, from the feeling of being cornered.
But to my dismay, I realized—I was lost.
Utterly, stupidly lost.
I'd asked an old man for directions earlier, and he'd seemed confident enough. But now his instructions felt like riddles spun just to torment me.
"HE SAID IT WAS AROUND HERE," I told myself, squinting down another dim alley. "BUT I FEEL LIKE I'VE BEEN WALKING IN CIRCLES FOR AT LEAST TEN MINUTES. WHAT'S WRONG WITH THESE STREETS?"
Every turn looked identical. Every corner was some new dead end. I'd never done anything like this before—wandering an unfamiliar city at night with nothing but a suitcase and stubborn pride.
I paused, forcing myself to look around carefully this time.
"I SAW THAT SQUARE WITH THE CLOCK TOWER EARLIER, TOO," I realized.
But it was gone now, swallowed up by the labyrinth of narrow roads.
A tight panic began to coil inside me.
"THE ADDRESSES HERE ARE WRITTEN DIFFERENTLY THAN IN MEURACEVIA… AND THE PLACE NAMES ARE UNFAMILIAR TO ME, WHICH MAKES IT CONFUSING."
And then, as if conspiring against me, pain stabbed at my feet—sharp, relentless.
"WHAT'S MORE, MY FEET HAVE BEEN HURTING ME FOR A WHILE."
The throbbing in my soles made my eyes burn. I pictured myself—a pathetic, exhausted figure huddled on cold stone—crying until dawn or until someone chased me off.
"I'M GOING TO END UP SLEEPING ON THE STREETS ON MY FIRST NIGHT HERE! WHERE AM I?"
Tears blurred the edges of the world. They slid hotly down before I could stop them, before I could swallow them back.
My panic was curdling into despair.
"THERE ISN'T ANYONE LEFT ON THE STREETS I COULD ASK, EITHER…"
My voice shook even in my thoughts as I took another strained STEP forward.
I fumbled with the note in my hand, pulling it closer to the nearest flickering lantern to read it again.
"SO HOUSE NUMBER 3 IS NEXT TO THE SQUARE… THE ALLEY NEXT TO THE CAFE IN FRONT OF IT…"
I recited the words in a small, trembling murmur, trying to force coherence into the mess.
"OH—"
Distracted, I walked straight into someone.
BUMP.
I stumbled back, instinctively reaching up to dab at the corners of my eyes.
"WHAT? THERE WASN'T ANYONE HERE. OH, SORR—"
I froze.
A shadowed figure stood before me, tall and unmistakably familiar—long coat, cap pulled low… and those eyes.
Those green, steady, unyielding eyes.
"FREDERICK?!"
The name ripped out of me in a breathless whisper, as if spoken by someone else wearing my voice. My heart lurched so violently I almost dropped my suitcase.
Behind him, the tall spire of a church loomed against the ink-dark sky, solemn and watchful, as if silently acknowledging this impossible reunion.
Frederick stared back at me, his expression unreadable, carved in cool composure even as my chest heaved from fear and shock.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm—too calm for the storm churning inside me.
"I'M SURE YOU HAVE MUCH TO BOTH ASK AND TELL, BUT ALL THAT CAN WAIT UNTIL TOMORROW."
His eyes flicked over the empty street. "IT'S GOTTEN LATE. IT'D BE BEST FOR YOU TO GET SOME REST."
I could only stare at him, my shock congealing into slow, simmering anger. He had left without a word. Without a trace. Leaving me to drown in confusion and abandonment.
And now—now he was speaking like nothing had happened.
He didn't need to hear my accusation to understand it. He saw it clearly in my eyes. Something softened in his expression—just barely.
"I UNDERSTAND YOU'RE ANGRY AT ME FOR DISAPPEARING WITHOUT A WORD," he said quietly. "BUT DO YOU INTEND ON STANDING OUT HERE ALL NIGHT?"
His gaze dropped briefly to the hand clutching my crumpled note, then back to my tear-bright eyes.
"WEREN'T YOU LOOKING FOR A PLACE TO SLEEP?"
My anger, once blazing and sharp enough to scorch the cold night air, had fizzled into something limp and colorless. All that remained was exhaustion—heavy, bone-deep exhaustion—and a reluctant, humiliating ribbon of relief. With a stiff inhale, I nodded. It wasn't much, barely the dip of my head, but it was enough for Frederick.
"FOLLOW ME," he said simply.
No softness. No satisfaction. No mockery. Just a command—delivered in that calm, flat cadence that left no room for argument.
He turned, the worn suitcase in his hand swinging slightly with his stride. I hesitated for a beat, staring at the broad line of his back, illuminated in fragments by the scattered lanterns on the street. Then I pulled myself forward, following him.
"That's definitely Frederick…"
The thought rose unbidden, tinged with disbelief. It was surreal. This man—this sharply outlined shape guiding me through a foreign town—was the same Frederick who once bowed his head respectfully whenever he approached me at the manor? The same man who answered in crisp, polite tones, always careful, always controlled?
"Although he was quite obedient when he worked for me, I could sense that he wasn't particularly docile by nature."
I remembered the way his eyes sometimes hardened, fleetingly, as if swallowing a retort. I remembered the tension in his jaw—always invisible to others, but noticeable to someone who watched him closely.
But the man walking ahead of me now…
"The Frederick I encountered outside of the manor… seems like a completely different person."
Sharper. Colder. More self-possessed. A person who knew this terrain better than I did, who belonged here in a way I very clearly did not. His voice, his expression, his movements—all of it cut with a quiet dominance I had never seen before.
I forced my gaze downward, focusing on the uneven stretch of cobblestones beneath my aching feet. The ground seemed designed for torment.
"My feet are killing me…"
The internal groan barely kept itself from becoming a whimper. Each step was a protest. A fiery, stabbing revolt from heels that had endured far too much.
"I walked too much in a stiff, new pair of shoes…" I told myself, as if logic soothed the pain.
"Not only from the station to the sea… then circling this district trying to find that ridiculous inn…"
Another jolt shot up my leg as I stepped on a cracked stone.
"And why—why is the ground paved SO POORLY?"
My left heel snagged on a raised corner of the street, causing my entire body to WOBBLE dangerously.
"Oh!"
The sound escaped before I could swallow it.
Frederick didn't stop fully—not at first. But his head turned slightly, just enough for his eyes to flick back at me. The gesture was fleeting, efficient, but impossibly sharp in its awareness.
He didn't look at my face. His gaze dropped straight to my feet.
Even from behind, I felt his scrutiny like a hand pressing lightly but unmistakably against my spine.
He turned forward again at once, but something in his posture had shifted—tighter, tenser.
From his perspective, I knew exactly what he was seeing: my careful steps, the way I tried to hide the limp, the subtle way I winced with each stride.
"Her feet must be aching," he thought—
I could almost feel the echo of his silent assessment.
"They'll be horribly swollen tomorrow…"
His grip on the suitcase tightened. His shoulders stiffened further.
A part of him—one he would never admit, never voice—wanted to simply bridge the distance between us, lift me in his arms, and end this painful procession.
"I'd like to just lift her up and carry her in," he was undoubtedly thinking, though he masked it perfectly.
But Frederick knew me, perhaps too well. He knew I would fight him tooth and nail, even in this sorry, exhausted state. Pride was a spiteful, stubborn thing.
The walk continued in silence—his steps steady and sure, mine strained but determined.
Then, at last, he slowed.
We arrived before a dimly lit doorway, wedged between two old brick buildings. The only illumination was a weary gas lamp above the entrance, its hazy glow casting broken shadows across the chipped wood of the door and the narrow alleyway surrounding us.
Frederick stopped.
I halted behind him.
Our destination.
And for the first time since leaving the open street, I felt the weight of approaching rest.
The sunlight warmed my cheek long before my senses fully returned. I stirred beneath the blankets, the unfamiliar softness cradling me so gently that, for a moment, I didn't remember where I was. It wasn't until the sharp scent of sea air drifted in through the window—clean, saline, alive—that last night's fragmented memories slotted back into place.
Frederick.
The dark streets.
My feet throbbing, my pride aching worse.
His chillingly familiar voice, so changed yet unmistakable.
I blinked against the bright gold streaming in through sheer curtains. Dust motes drifted lazily through the light, catching the morning like tiny suspended stars. Outside, gulls and sparrows sang in overlapping bursts: CHIRP, CHIRP, their carefree chatter almost mocking the heaviness still clinging to my chest.
I pushed myself upright, the bedsheets sliding to my lap. A dull ache pulsed at my heels, but it was no longer unbearable. My body felt rested for the first time since leaving home. The mattress—thin, simple—had felt like luxury after the possibility of cold stone streets.
I rubbed my calves gently.
"What time is it?" I murmured aloud, though the answer didn't truly matter. Morning was already moving. I had things to do.
But the moment I looked around the simple, quaint inn room—its wooden beams, its patched curtains, its soft patina of age—my heart squeezed. I didn't feel unsafe anymore. But I did feel… untethered.
Frederick had brought me here. And then he had vanished.
No explanation.
No plan.
No trace.
The weight in my stomach returned, slow and murky.
I rose, letting my toes brush the cool wooden floor. As I stood, I rotated my ankle experimentally. The pain was still there—a reminder of yesterday's frantic wandering—but manageable.
"My feet aren't too swollen, and I'm feeling pretty energetic. Good," I thought with relief.
"Honestly, I was a bit worried…"
I padded into the small bathroom. The faucet squeaked sharply before water rushed out—cold, clean, waking me all over again. TAP TAP. I washed my face, brushed my hair with quick, practiced strokes.
"Thanks to all those nights I spent away from the manor," I mused, wiping droplets from my jawline, "I have no difficulty washing up and getting myself ready to go outside."
A faint smile tugged at my lips.
"I think I'm getting better at makeup and doing my hair, too."
I lifted my gaze to the mirror.
A tidy, composed woman stared back—still tired, yes, but steadier, more capable than the panicked version of myself from last night. I touched my reflection lightly, tracing my cheekbone.
"It's all fine, except…"
My voice drifted off.
Except for the one thing I had never expected.
"Running into Frederick yesterday is the last thing I expected."
My chest tightened as the memory resurfaced with painful clarity—his cold words, his unreadable eyes, the commanding tone that left no room for refusal.
"He's never spoken to me like that before. He seemed like a completely different person…"
I gripped the towel too tightly, knuckles pale. The uncertainty between us felt like a stretch of unlit road—dangerous and strange.
"After escorting me to this inn, Frederick vanished."
Just like that.
No farewell, no warning, no promise of return.
There were so many things I had wanted to ask him. Wanted to tell him. Things that had sat heavy and silent in my chest through the entire journey.
And he had said—without a shred of hesitation—
"I'm sure you have much to both ask and tell, but all that can wait until tomorrow."
Well… now it was tomorrow.
I opened the window. CLACK.
A gust of crisp sea breeze rushed inside, stirring the curtains and clearing my thoughts like a sudden wind sweeping through a foggy harbor.
I inhaled deeply.
I didn't come here to cling to the past. I didn't come here for protection. I didn't come here to be swayed by Frederick's reappearance.
I had my own work. My own mission.
My own path—no matter how uneven the cobblestones might be.
"I will find him later," I decided in a firm, quiet voice. "But first, I must handle what I came here for."
I dressed quickly in my travel suit, fastening each button with renewed clarity. My heartbeat steadied. My mind sharpened. The day awaited.
I stepped toward the door, ready to descend to the lobby below.
.
The man stood before me, a tall, silent figure framed by the dull morning light. Just minutes ago, the room had felt warm, safe—washed in soft sunshine and the quiet rhythm of the sea outside. But his arrival carved through that gentleness like a dark blade. The air shifted. The warmth evaporated. I felt exposed, as though the sun itself had retreated in his presence.
I clutched the towel around me, knuckles whitening.
"There were things I wanted to say to you if I ever saw you again," I thought, the words burning at the back of my throat. My chest felt tight with everything left unsaid—questions that had haunted me, explanations I deserved, emotions I had buried only to have them ripped open by his sudden reappearance.
"I had so many questions to ask, so many answers to demand."
Every syllable was a pulse of pain, a reminder of nights spent replaying the moment he left without a word.
But he didn't flinch. He didn't soften.
His voice—cold, composed, entirely foreign—cut through the space between us.
"You can do that starting tomorrow if you wish."
The bluntness hit harder than any shouted cruelty could have. Tomorrow?
As if my anguish were an inconvenience.
As if the pain he caused could be neatly postponed.
That's impossible, my mind whispered, unable to bear the distance in his eyes. The Frederick I knew—steady, gentle, warm in quiet ways—felt like a ghost. This man was steel. Controlled. Unreachable.
Then he said it.
That line that made something inside me splinter.
"How brave of you."
But there was no admiration in it. Only ice.
A mocking, cutting twist of his tone that chilled me to the bone.
And with a suddenness that made my stomach drop, he issued a sharp command:
"Follow me."
Just that.
No explanation. No emotion.
Just authority—unyielding, unrecognizable authority.
I stared at him, stunned. His voice had never carried that kind of edge before.
He seemed like a completely different person.
A stranger wearing the face of someone I once trusted.
Across the room, the window slammed shut.
CLACK.
The sound echoed like finality.
WHOOSH.
The curtains settled in the still air.
I drew in a trembling breath, letting it out as a quiet, jagged sigh. My chest ached. The man I once loved—whose arms had once been my refuge—felt impossibly distant now. As though I had crossed oceans only to find a hollow imitation of him.
"It's like you've become a complete stranger…"
The thought slipped through me as I turned toward the window, the towel still clutched tightly at my chest. The brilliant blue seascape spread out beyond the glass—vast, indifferent, painfully serene.
"…And the days we spent together were nothing but a fever dream."
I tried to hold onto those memories, but they were dissolving, fading beneath the sharpness of the man standing only meters away. The warmth he once gave me was being overwritten by this chilling new reality.
I forced myself to face him again, pulled violently back into the moment by the weight of his presence.
His voice came again—low, controlled, and carrying the faintest edge of something accusatory.
"Where did you disappear to this time?"