The cliffs of Havenscove were the kind of place where the world seemed to pause between breaths. Mist hung low over the water, rolling in slow curls that swallowed the horizon. The sea murmured far below, each wave folding and breaking against the rocks with the patience of something eternal.
I held Oliver's hand as we climbed the worn path, his small fingers warm in mine. He hummed softly under his breath, a tune with no name that rose and fell with the wind. The boy always hummed when the world grew quiet, as if he feared silence might notice him.
The morning light was pale, a faint silver bleeding through the clouds. The air tasted of salt and something older, something that always made me think of memory. When we reached the top of the cliff, the grass gave way to bare stone. I stopped there, staring out at the endless stretch of gray water.
This was where Liam had loved to stand. The edge of the world, he used to call it. I never understood why he smiled when he said it, as if the edge was a promise rather than an end. Now I understood.
I knelt and set down the small bundle of flowers I had carried from the shop. Wild lilies, soft white and already wilting from the climb. Beside me, Oliver crouched, his curls falling into his eyes as he watched.
"Happy birthday, Papa," he said.
The words were small and certain, and they tore something open inside me. I smiled because it was easier than crying. "He would have liked that you remembered."
"Do you think he hears me?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the flowers.
"I think he hears everything that matters," I said.
He nodded, satisfied. Then, after a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a shell. It was chipped at the edge, the color of old bone. "This one was his favorite. The one from the tide pool. I saved it."
He placed it beside the flowers with careful hands. The sea wind lifted his hair, and for a moment, he looked so much like Liam that I had to look away. The same dark lashes, the same shape of jaw. The same quiet stubbornness that had both ruined and saved me.
The bell tower in the distance tolled nine times. Each note rolled across the cliffs and sank into the sea. I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer I did not believe in. It was not for peace or for mercy. It was just to feel less alone.
When I opened my eyes again, the sea had changed. The surface had darkened, the gray deepening into something like ink. A ripple of light ran through it, faint and unnatural, bending the air above it like heat.
Oliver followed my gaze. "The water looks sick."
"It is just the tide," I said, though the words came too quickly.
He frowned. "The tide is not supposed to glow."
He was right. For a heartbeat, the horizon shimmered with light, as if something behind it had stirred. Then the shimmer vanished. The sea went still, pretending it had never happened.
I drew him close and kissed the top of his head. "Come on. We should go back before it rains."
We began the walk down the cliff path, the stones slick with morning dew. The town below was waking. Smoke rose from chimneys, the scent of bread already drifting through the streets. The gulls screamed above the harbor, and the fishermen called to one another in voices rough from salt and sleep.
Havenscove looked the same as it always had, and yet the air felt different. Thicker somehow. Listening.
Oliver let go of my hand to chase a butterfly that had wandered too close to the path. His laughter spilled into the mist, and I let myself smile. There were moments, brief as they were, when it almost felt like life again.
We passed the old church on the edge of the square. Its doors were open, candles flickering inside. The faint chant of morning prayers floated out, soft and low. For a moment, I thought I heard my name within them, whispered like a secret. I told myself it was the wind.
By the time we reached Haven's Nook, the sun had climbed higher, turning the mist to gold. The small shop sat tucked between the baker's house and the cobbler's. Its windows were fogged, the glass etched faintly with runes no one but I could read. The sign above the door swayed gently in the breeze, the words faded by salt and time.
Inside, the air was warm and sweet. The shelves were lined with jars of herbs, each labeled in my careful handwriting. Dried flowers hung from the rafters, their shadows moving across the walls. The scent of sage, rosemary, and rain filled every breath. It was home. It was all that was left.
Oliver darted to his stool by the counter, grabbing one of his drawing pencils. "Can I make Papa a picture?"
"Of course," I said. "But do not use all the paper again."
He grinned without looking up. "I will not."
I moved through the shop, straightening jars and sweeping dust from the shelves. I had learned that the body can trick the heart with work. If the hands keep moving, the grief has less room to grow.
When the bell above the door chimed, I looked up, expecting a customer. Instead, Tata Sofia stood there, her shawls wrapped around her like layers of stories. Her silver hair caught the light, and her eyes, sharp and kind all at once, found mine.
"Child," she said, her voice soft but steady. "You should not have gone to the cliffs alone again."
"I was not alone," I said, glancing at Oliver. "He came with me."
"That is worse," she muttered, stepping inside. "The sea listens on days like this. You must be careful what you tell it."
I smiled faintly. "You always say that."
"Because it is always true." She touched my cheek, her fingers warm. "The sea remembers names. It remembers blood. Do not make it remember yours."
Before I could answer, she turned to Oliver. "Come, little one. I will take you for your lesson. Your mother has work to do."
Oliver protested weakly, but I nodded. "Go with her. Be good."
He kissed my hand before running to her side. Sofia took his hand, her bracelets clinking softly. Before they left, she looked at me once more, her expression unreadable. "If the air grows heavy, close your windows. Do not light the candles until I return."
Then she was gone.
The silence that followed was almost a relief. I moved to the counter, grinding herbs into powder, letting the familiar rhythm steady my thoughts. The mortar's sound filled the room, low and soft, like a heartbeat.
I told myself that everything was fine. That the shimmer in the sea was only light. That the world was still ordinary.
But as I worked, the shadow of my reflection in the glass began to move differently from me. It tilted its head when I did not. It smiled when I was not smiling. I blinked, and it was gone.
My heart raced. I closed the shutters and whispered the old words my grandmother had taught me. Just in case.
By the time Sofia returned with Oliver, the sky had darkened. The air smelled of rain and something faintly metallic. A storm was coming. I told myself that was all it was.
That night, after Oliver fell asleep, I stood at the window and watched the sea. The moonlight stretched across it in a trembling path. Far beyond the horizon, something pulsed, faint and rhythmic, like the beating of a heart.
The world was changing. I could feel it in my blood.
And for the first time in years, I was afraid.