By nightfall the monsoon was ruthless. From the balcony, the Arabian Sea looked like hammered silver, restless and alive. Waves flung themselves against the basalt cliffs, sending bursts of foam high enough to graze the ancient walls of Villa Amparo. Each crash echoed through the house like a war drum, shaking out the scent of old cedar and salt.
Jennifer pressed her shoulder to the stubborn window and forced the latch shut with a dull click. Rain streaked the glass in wild lines, a thousand silver snakes racing downward. She leaned her forehead to the cool pane and tried to steady the flutter in her chest.
Behind her, the crimson letter lay on the desk. In the morning it had been dry and brittle, its edges faintly frayed. Now the parchment glistened, droplets sliding along the margin with an unearthly sheen.
She stared. New words, dark and deliberate, had appeared on the page as if written by an unseen hand:
The sea does not forget. Neither must you.
Her breath caught. She hadn't even touched a pen.
Suddenly, a crash echoed from the hall. Not timber muttering in the storm, but something sharp—the slam of a door, rattling the mirrors. Jennifer's pulse jumped. She snatched the brass candleholder, its wax stub barely flickering in the draft, and stepped into the corridor.
The house had always carried memory in its stones, but tonight it seemed alive.
Lightning flashed through stained glass, throwing jagged shadows across the cracked ceiling. The air tasted of earth and salt, thick with the storm.
"Who's there?" Her voice barely rose above the wind.
At the far end of the passage stood a figure—tall, broad-shouldered, rain trailing down his hair. For a heartbeat the lightning caught his eyes: a deep, honeyed teak, impossible to look away from.
Then darkness swallowed everything.
"Arjun," she whispered, the name landing on her tongue like a memory she shouldn't have.
A gust slammed the door behind her, snuffing out the candle. Darkness folded in, almost absolute. She heard it now—measured footsteps approaching over mosaic tiles.
She pressed her back to the wall. The footsteps slowed, stopped—silence.
Lightning ripped the black again. The hall was empty. Only a thread of sandalwood and sea spray lingered, warm as skin.
Jennifer hurried back to her room, heart pounding. The letter lay where she left it, but now a new line bloomed across its center, ink glistening as if written before her eyes:
Find me where the river meets the tide. Midnight.
The clock read 11:32.
She paced, reason pulling her one way, something deeper pulling her another. The villa seemed to breathe in step with her, each silent exhale pushing her toward the door.
Outside, the storm softened. Rain became a silver curtain, full of the smell of earth and ocean.
Jennifer wrapped herself in a raincoat, grabbed the lantern, and slipped through the heavy doors.
The night met her like something alive. The river path shimmered with each flash of lightning. Palms bowed under water, fronds whispering secrets older than the house. The earth gripped her sandals, every step a quiet surrender to the tide's pull.
At the edge of the mangroves the wind faltered, hush settling over the river mouth where silver water joined the restless sea.
A solitary figure waited at the shore, dark and unmoving above the shining surf.
Jennifer's heart hammered as she realized she was already moving toward him.