Marin's heart clenched the instant she saw the necklace.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
Her eyes gleamed, as if ripped from the present and violently hurled into a past she had sworn was buried.
With both hands, she picked up the small object and felt the familiarity of the metal against her fingers. On the side was a faint dent — a flaw she knew better than the scar on her own back.
It was him.
Her mother's locket.
The same necklace she had carried for almost eighteen years.
The same one she had been forced to sell, with trembling hands and a shattered heart, to buy her freedom.
She blinked hard, fighting back tears in the busy hospital.
A deep breath.
Eyes were watching her.
She was a lieutenant, after all... and any slip could tarnish her command.
Even if she didn't care about appearances, she knew that if Sullever found out she had cried in the lobby, he'd scold her like a gruff father.
Another breath. Posture restored.
With urgency, she searched inside the box for a note, a letter, any trace of who might have sent it.
Nothing.
Only a notebook with yellowed pages.
Silence echoed inside her.
It seemed handwritten, the cursive strong and deliberate.
On the very first page, a lonely phrase stood out in dark ink, written across the thin sheet that served as a cover:
"For Marin."
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
Simple.
Personal.
Intentional.
Right there, surrounded by wounded soldiers, hurried doctors, and machines that beeped without pause, Marin ignored her rank, ignored her composure, ignored everything.
She tore the manuscript open as if it might leap out with answers.
The first lines read like a chronicle.
A narrative too fanciful, like those old-fashioned fantasy books — enchanted swords, threatened kingdoms, heroes chosen by prophecy.
She flipped the pages quickly, absorbing almost nothing.
She was searching for something hidden — a message between the lines, a name, a clue.
Nothing.
She shook the notebook, hoping something might fall out.
Another solemn "nothing."
It was just a book.
A pitiful manuscript, coverless, with a dedication far too simple to explain so much.
She let out a bitter sigh.
Her gaze fell back to the necklace in her hands.
It felt heavier now.
There was a story hanging from it — and she didn't know what.
Who had sent it?
Why?
How did they know where she'd be? And why there, of all places?
Why wasn't there a damned note?
Her posture snapped upright, almost feral.
The helicopter was already waiting on the pad. She couldn't waste another second.
She longed to fly straight to the city where, years before, she had pawned the necklace in that dusty shop, and rip the truth from the arrogant old man who hadn't even looked her in the eyes when he bought it. But she had sworn never to set foot in that city again.
And more than that, she had no authorization to abandon her post.
Sullever had been sent to the front line, leaving her buried under reports and in charge of small units. She was a logistics officer, responsible for routes, supplies, troop maintenance — the gears of war.
She had to be rational.
But the necklace burned in her palm.
A breath.
She chose differently.
She rushed to the heliport. Her return flight to the vessel was already waiting.
Silent.
Utterly silent, for the entire journey.
The smell of brine wrapped around her as she stepped back onto the deck.
Her head still throbbed. Her heart still raced.
She needed to finish the report quickly to carve out a moment to think.
She had to solve the mystery of the package before it drove her mad.
And so she did.
Her work that day carried a strange, fierce efficiency.
Before the shift ended, Marin seized her military phone. She needed to call the delivery company before business hours were over.
The reflection of the orange sunset painted the crystal waters outside the ship's comm window.
Soothing. Almost alien against the storm inside her.
Her headache had faded, but anxiety and fear still danced in her stomach.
After several attempts, a clerk finally answered.
A young man, voice polite, tone impersonal. As soon as she explained and asked for the sender's name, he gave the first refusal.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but that information is protected by confidentiality clauses. We can only release it with formal authorization or a court order."
Her jaw clenched.
"I am an active-duty officer in the Armed Forces. This item was delivered outside military protocol, and I need to verify a possible breach of national security."
The silence on the line stretched too long.
"I understand, ma'am. But even so... internal directives bind me. I can only forward your request for review and a later response."
"There is no time for that," she cut in, firm. "The sender's name may be tied to an ongoing investigation. Do you want to risk charges of obstruction, or will you cooperate now?"
Static nearly swallowed the line. For an instant, the clerk seemed to weigh her words.
"Wait..." he murmured, hesitant. "One moment."
She heard faint keystrokes in the distance. When he returned, his voice had changed.
"There was an internal note with this shipment," he said carefully. "An unusual remark. The sender requested that her name be kept sealed... until the day someone, someday, asked for it directly."
Marin said nothing.
"The name was recorded as Eshiley Grayson. The shipment was scheduled years ago."
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
"Repeat," she whispered, mouth dry.
"Eshiley Grayson. It was prepaid in cash, with a fixed date. All arranged in an unusual way, but legally filed."
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
Grayson. The name tolled in her mind like an ancient bell.
Grayson...
It can't be... the third coincidence in one day?
It might not be kin to Corporal Joshua Grayson. But by now, Marin no longer believed in coincidences.
Don't they say three is too many?
Her blood froze.
She hung up and dialed quickly, crossing names, places, dates.
Confirmed.
The sender was Eshiley Grayson, dead for years. Sister to Corporal Joshua Grayson.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
Her pulse roared in her neck, her wrists, her ears.
How...?
The worst of it was that Marin should never have received that package at all.
During active war, no military personnel aboard a logistics or combat unit could receive civilian mail directly. Doing so would compromise Navy security by revealing location — theirs and their ships'.
Packages were intercepted at Armed Forces Sorting Centers, returned or stored for clearance.
In theory, that box should never have slipped through — especially unmarked and with no active sender.
Protocol was clear: without express authorization or extraordinary cause, such a package would take years to reach her... if not destroyed first.
Yet she had it.
At the hospital.
The exact day and hour she'd left the vessel, by Sullever's orders, to visit Corporal Joshua.
The exact moment she passed reception to leave.
The receptionist had even remarked how "they never received deliveries there" and only accepted it because Marin stood in front of her at that instant.
An anomaly.
A delivery that shouldn't have been made, arriving by sheer coincidence.
Too mad to be coincidence.
It was either fate...
Or something worse.
Marin dropped the phone.
Her stomach turned.
Nausea welled, but she fought it down.
She had to be rational.
Even if she couldn't abandon the ship to investigate, she hired a private investigator — one of the best, and most expensive. Her order was precise.
"Go to the city," she named the place exactly.
An hour later, he returned.
"The old man only talked after seeing a pile of money," the detective reported. "Said a woman bought the necklace a few days after you sold it. Paid cash. No name, no contact. But she seemed to know it was important."
Marin hesitated.
How could he remember something from years ago? Didn't he have customers every day? How could he recall this one, so clearly?
He might be lying, milking her for more.
Not reliable.
But before she could question, something he added froze her blood.
"The shopkeeper said the necklace was dented at the edge, barely worth anything. He planned to melt it down for silver. But the woman went straight to it, as if she already knew. He tried to hike the price when he saw her interest. Still, she paid without haggling. Said she needed that necklace, and only that."
If Eshiley was dead...
How had she known the exact day and hour Marin would be there?
How had she scheduled delivery with surgical precision, years in advance, for a moment dependent on countless variables?
Marin had only been in that hospital because of Joshua.
She had only visited him because of Sullever's direct order.
Reception didn't accept packages, and normally the box would've been returned to storage, like so many others.
Yet there she was, necklace and manuscript in hand.
Fate?
She didn't believe in such things — but what else was left?
Then came the urge to ask Joshua.
But it wouldn't be easy. It would take ages to get permission for a visit without official reason.
He was still under restricted surveillance after the incident. Not even a call would be allowed without clearance.
So she decided to write a letter.
Simple.
Discreet.
Direct.
"I received a package sent by your sister."
Maybe he knew something.
Though Marin doubted it — the recruit was likely just as lost as she was.
Perhaps a note could reach him. But she couldn't count on that.
She had to move forward. Only one path remained.
Her eyes fell again on the notebook.
There was no other choice.
She had to read it.
She had to know.
For now... the book was all she had.
She hurried to her quarters, leaving an hour earlier than usual.
No one questioned it — she was exemplary, and everyone knew.
A quick wash. Her resting clothes.
She sat on her bed, sheets pulled aside.
Opened the first page.
A breath.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
And she began to read.
To be continued...