Alia awoke to the sharp tang of sea air drifting through a cracked dormer window. Pale morning light filtered in, illuminating little motes of dust that danced like restless spirits across the attic floor. She sat up slowly, the words from last night's letter still swirling in her mind: "The sea is loud, but silence is louder."
Coffee was the first order of business. She crossed the sloping room to the small kitchenette, where an enamel kettle whistled its welcome. From her suitcase she retrieved the chipped mug she'd bought at the Main Street market—cerulean blue with a hand-painted seashell—and filled it with grounds. While the water boiled, she padded over to the desk where the typewriter sat, as if drawn by some magnetic pull.
The envelope remained where she'd left it, still pristine, still tantalizingly mysterious. She picked it up again, feeling the slight give of the paper under her fingers. On impulse, she peeked inside: another letter.
> "If you listen closely at dawn, you'll hear the place where ink meets sea."
— M.
Her pulse quickened. Two letters in two nights. Whoever "M." was, they had something to say—and they were determined that she hear it.
With flickering curiosity, Alia tucked the note into her journal and headed downstairs. The bookshop's front door hung open, as if inviting her in. Dust motes floated in lazy spirals around stacked shelves of leather-bound volumes and yellowing maps. A brass bell chimed softly when she crossed the threshold.
No one was there.
A narrow spiral staircase led to the shop's back room, where a battered counter held vintage postcards, quills, and perched on a velvet cushion… a silver pocket watch stopped at exactly 6:14. She wondered if that, too, was part of the mystery.
"Morning, Ms. Reed!" A voice floated in from the street. Alia looked up to see Mrs. Agnes Thurber, the elderly proprietor of the café next door, leaning against the doorway. Her knitted cardigan was the color of storm clouds, and her gray hair was twisted in a neat bun.
"Good morning," Alia called back, folding her arms around herself against the chill.
"I saw your light on last night," Mrs. Thurber said, stepping into the shop. "Can't imagine what you're doing up here at midnight, but I hope you're settling in all right."
"More or less," Alia admitted, smiling. "I—uh—found something up in the attic."
Mrs. Thurber's eyes gleamed. "Whittaker's typewriter, you mean? Legend has it Ezra himself used it to pen verse during the war. Some say he left love letters unsent when his fiancée vanished at sea."
Alia's heart skipped. "His fiancée… vanished?"
"Lost at sea," Mrs. Thurber confirmed. "Ship went down in a storm, I heard. He never married. Eventually the shop closed; the town moved on. But over the years, people have claimed they find notes and scrapings of poetry left around."
Alia glanced at the pocket watch, then at the typewriter on the desk. "You think these letters could be his?"
"Or someone else," Agnes said with a sly smile. "Greyhaven is small; stories tend to linger, and sometimes people pick them up again just to keep legends alive."
Alia nodded, though her excitement warred with her doubt. "Thank you, Mrs. Thurber."
"Anytime, dear. Now, go find dawn—and maybe a clue."
After Agnes left, Alia wandered the shop aisles, her fingers brushing spines embossed with gold leaf. She let her gaze drift to the bay windows at the back, where the sea stretched wide and pellucid under a pale sky. The tide was out, revealing slick rocks and tide pools that glimmered like sapphires.
If you listen closely at dawn…
A sudden breeze stirred the papers on the desk. Alia leaned in to catch a whisper of the ocean's roar. In the distance, a lone gull cried against the wind. She closed her eyes, pressing her palm to the window frame. The metal was cold, briny.
Something in the foam-flecked surf caught her attention—a solitary figure kneeling by the shoreline, arms extended as if collecting something. He wore a dark jacket and a faded cap: an unmistakable silhouette against the light.
Her breath hitched. Could that be M.?
Minutes passed before he rose, pocketing what he had found. He turned toward the bookshop—toward her. For a heartbeat, their eyes met. Then he slipped away among the shifted tide pools, disappearing as the gull's cry faded.
Alia's heart pounded. A real person—real and perhaps fearful of discovery—stood somewhere on those damp stones. Her journal beckoned. She scribbled furiously:
> Clue #1: Attic, midnight
Clue #2: Dawn, tide pools
Clue #3: M. watches… but why?
She snapped the journal shut. The day's light was growing too bright for secrets; she needed time, space, and answers. But for now, she allowed herself a small thrill: this was no prank. It was the beginning of a story—one she was determined to finish.
And so, with ocean spray still on her boots, Alia Reed set out to follow