The sea was quiet that morning—too quiet, as if it remembered what it had taken.
Lena Carter stood at the edge of the cliff, the hem of her coat fluttering in the breeze. Her fingers gripped the letter tighter, the paper soft from repeated handling. It still carried his scent—faint, almost gone—but enough to make her heart ache.
Three months. That's how long it had been since Jay Donovan's car plunged off this very cliff. The waves below had swallowed everything—his car, his body, and with it, her reason to breathe.
They never found him. No body. No trace. Just shattered glass and a bent license plate washed ashore.
Everyone told her to move on. Her friends. Her mother. Even her therapist. He's gone, Lena. He's not coming back.
But then the letter arrived.
Folded neatly in her mailbox with no postmark, no envelope—just her name scrawled in Jay's handwriting across the front. The date on the letter? One day after the accident.
"Lena,
If you're reading this, something has gone terribly wrong.
Don't trust anyone. Not even those closest to you.
And whatever happens—don't come looking for me.
I love you. Always.
—Jay."
She had read it a hundred times. The words never changed, but the chill they brought always deepened.
A sudden gust of wind blew her scarf into the air. She turned to chase it—and stopped cold.
A figure.
Across the road, standing just beyond the tree line. Dressed in a gray coat, a hood over his head. Watching her.
Her heart skipped. "Jay?"
She blinked. The figure was gone.
Was her mind playing tricks again?
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A message from an unknown number:
"I saw you at the cliff. You shouldn't be there alone. —Jay"
Her stomach twisted.
She spun in circles, scanning the road, the woods, the empty parking lot behind her. Nothing.
She rushed to her car, fumbling with the keys. The door opened.
And there, on the driver's seat, lay a single red rose.
Jay's favorite flower. The one he always brought her on their anniversaries.
Tears stung her eyes. She didn't know if she was scared or relieved.
Back home, Lena placed the rose in a glass and stared at it like it held answers. She pulled out her laptop, opened a private folder titled "The Vanishing"—the one she had created the day she received the letter.
Inside were photos, articles, screenshots. The police report. Jay's final voicemail. The flower. The cliff.
And now, the text message.
This wasn't closure. This was a breadcrumb.
And she would follow it—no matter where it led.