There were two days left until school started again.
Two days until backpacks were dragged out from under beds, alarms reset, and everyone pretended summer hadn't rearranged them. Two days until Hope would be expected to sit still in a classroom while the sea quietly kept count.
The house had slipped into a strange rhythm—half normal, half alert. Windows stayed cracked even when it wasn't hot. Lights were turned off the moment dusk settled. Hope checked the tide charts every morning like other people checked the weather.
We didn't talk about the letter much anymore.
Not because it didn't matter—but because it mattered too much.
Hope was sitting on the floor, back against the couch, surrounded by open notebooks. Not school ones. These were older, maps, sketches of currents, rough diagrams of the coastline that didn't exist on any official chart. She was tracing a line with her finger, slow and thoughtful.
"You've checked that one three times," I said.
She didn't look up. "Four, actually."
I crouched beside her, following her gaze. "And?"
"And it hasn't changed," she said. "Which makes me nervous."
"Because you were hoping it would?"
"No," she replied. "Because if it doesn't change, it means the sea's committed."
I leaned back against the couch. Outside, the wind brushed past the house, not loud enough to be dramatic, just persistent enough to notice.
"We've done everything we can," I said. "Prep-wise."
She finally looked at me. "Have we?"
I met her eyes. She wasn't challenging me. She was checking—making sure I was still thinking, still with her.
"We know the timing," I said. "We know where the shallows thin without breaking. We know what not to bring."
"And what about what we can't control?" she asked.
I didn't answer right away.
The truth was, there were plenty of things we couldn't control. Whether the messenger received what we sent, or whether it reached the king first. Whether the sea would recognize Hope the way it used to. Whether being seen again would change something permanently.
But none of that was new anymore.
"We can't plan for every current," I said finally. "Just the ones that matter most."
She nodded, accepting that, then closed one of the notebooks and stacked it neatly. "If someone intercepts it," she said quietly, "they might think they understand what we're doing."
"They won't," I said. "They'll think they do. That's different."
Hope let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "You sound way too calm for someone who's about to help sneak into the sea, into a highly guarded kingdom with a corrupt king."
"I'm not calm," I said. "I'm focused."
She studied me for a second. "You're not scared of him."
"The king?" I shook my head. "I'm not scared of titles."
That earned a small smile. It faded quickly, replaced by something more serious.
"What if the messenger doesn't come?" she asked.
"Then we wait," I said. "And if he does—"
"We're ready," she finished.
Night fell slowly. No sudden darkness, no storm. Just the steady dimming of the world outside the windows. I went to my room and ate dinner without really tasting it. Packed and repacked the same few items, then put them back exactly where they'd been before.
Waiting wasn't easy. It felt like holding your breath underwater—controlled, deliberate, aware of every second passing.
Two days left.
And somewhere between land and sea, something was already moving.