In Oakhaven, the sun always set with the polite efficiency of a well-trained butler. It didn't rage against the horizon or bleed scarlet into the sea; it simply dipped below the waves, leaving the cobblestone streets bathed in a Perpetual, golden twilight that smelled faintly of salt and lavender.
Liam was cleaning the front window of The Spine & Sea, a task he had performed every Tuesday at 4:15 PM for three years. He was twenty-eight, but in Oakhaven, he felt like he was becoming part of the architecture—a gargoyle with a microfiber cloth.
He was a man of small, sharp details. He noticed that the town's clock tower had only three hands, though there was a ghostly shadow where a fourth should have been. He noticed that Mrs. Gable, the florist, always wore a wedding ring but couldn't quite remember her husband's first name.
"It's just on the tip of my tongue, Liam dear," she'd say, laughing a soft, airy sound that reminded him of dandelion fluff. "But who needs names when the weather is this lovely?"
The bell above the door chimed—a silver, lonely sound.
Liam didn't look up immediately. He finished the corner of the glass, watching the reflection of the street. It was perfect. The hedges were trimmed to identical heights. The harbor water was a flat, obedient blue. There were no potholes in Oakhaven. There were no scars.
"We're closing in ten minutes," Liam said, turning around.
The man standing by the History section didn't look like he belonged in Oakhaven. He was dressed in a heavy, charcoal-grey overcoat that seemed to hold onto the damp chill of a storm Liam hadn't seen in years. His skin had a translucent, parchment-like quality, and his eyes were the color of a winter sea—grey, turbulent, and ancient.
"I'm not looking for something new," the old man said. His voice was a dry rustle, like wind through dead leaves. "I'm looking for something that's been lost."
Liam stepped behind the counter, his thumb tracing a small, jagged scratch in the mahogany—a detail he cherished because it was a flaw. "Everything we have is cataloged, Mr...?"
"Elias," the man said. He didn't offer a last name. He moved toward the counter, and Liam noticed a strange phenomenon: where Elias walked, the dust motes in the air seemed to settle instantly, and the ambient hum of the refrigerator in the back room died away.
Elias placed a book on the counter.
It was bound in leather so dark it looked charred. There was no title on the spine, no author, and no library mark. When Elias's hand left the cover, Liam saw that the old man's fingers were trembling—or perhaps they were just becoming less solid. For a heartbeat, Liam thought he could see the wood grain of the counter through the man's knuckles.
"Oakhaven is a beautiful place, isn't it, Liam?" Elias asked.
"It's peaceful," Liam replied cautiously.
"It's a graveyard of 'hows' and 'whys,'" Elias countered. He tapped the book. "Tell me, who built the bridge over the Salt-Creek? The one with the seven arches?"
Liam opened his mouth to answer. He knew the bridge. He walked over it every day. But as he reached for the name, he felt a strange, soft static in his brain. It was like trying to catch a handful of fog. "I... I suppose it's always been there. The Founders, I imagine."
"There are no Founders in the records," Elias whispered. "The town simply is. It is a masterpiece of forgetting. But a soul cannot survive on silence alone. The weight is becoming too much for me to carry."
Elias pushed the book toward Liam.
"I don't buy private collections without a provenance," Liam said, his heart starting to thud against his ribs. Something was wrong. The air in the shop had grown cold enough to see his breath.
"This isn't a sale. It's a return," Elias said. He turned to leave, his movements fluid and hurried, as if he were being pulled away by an invisible tide.
"Wait!" Liam called out, reaching for the book. "You forgot your—"
But the door didn't chime. When Liam looked up, the shop was empty. The street outside was bathed in that same, unwavering golden light. There was no sign of a man in a charcoal coat. There were no footprints on the sidewalk.
Liam looked down at the book. He flipped it open.
The pages were cream-colored and thick, but they were entirely blank. He turned page after page—nothing but empty space. He felt a surge of irritation. A prank? A local eccentric losing his mind?
Then, his thumb brushed the center of a page.
Under the warmth of his skin, ink began to bleed upward from the fibers like a bruise forming under the skin. It wasn't printed text; it was a frantic, elegant handwriting.
June 14th. The year of the Great Wave. We didn't run because we chose to stay. We didn't die because we chose to forget.
Liam pulled his hand back, gasping. The ink vanished instantly, retreating back into the paper until the page was a pristine, mocking white once again.
He looked out the window at the clock tower. The shadow of the fourth hand seemed to flicker, ticking against a time that didn't exist.
Liam took a deep breath, his fingers hovering over the leather cover. For the first time in his life, the perfect stillness of Oakhaven felt like a hand pressed over his mouth.