The morning came too quietly.When Elena opened her eyes, sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, painting dull streaks of gold across the worn floorboards. For a moment, she almost convinced herself the night before had been a dream — the whispers, the open window, the figure in the fog.
But the salt on her skin said otherwise.
She sat up, heart pounding. The window was closed now. Perfectly shut, as if it had never been touched.Only the faint outline of a wet footprint near the sill — small, bare, almost childlike — betrayed the silence.
Elena stared at it until her stomach turned cold.
Downstairs, the inn was quiet. Too quiet. The old woman from last night was nowhere to be seen.A clock ticked somewhere, though she couldn't tell where the sound came from; it seemed to echo through the walls.
On the dining table sat a single plate of toast, already cold, and a cup of tea still faintly steaming.Beside it — a folded note.
"For Miss Foster.You may find what you're looking for in the library.— M."
Elena hesitated. What I'm looking for? She hadn't told anyone why she was driving alone up the coast, why she'd left everything behind in San Francisco.No one could know.
Still, curiosity tugged at her like the pull of the tide.
The library was at the far end of the hall, its door carved with sea motifs — waves, shells, a sailor's compass. Inside, dust floated like ash in the weak morning light.Bookshelves lined the room from floor to ceiling, and an old gramophone sat in the corner, silent but gleaming.
Elena brushed her fingers over the spines. Most were journals, logs, and old maritime records.One, however, stood out — a small leather-bound book with no title, its cover warped by moisture.
She opened it.
The pages were filled with names. Dozens, maybe hundreds, written in fading ink. Some crossed out. Some smeared beyond recognition.Then, near the bottom of one page, her breath caught.
Elena Foster — Room 6.
She dropped the book. It landed open on the floor, and as it fell, a photograph slipped out.Black-and-white. A group of travelers standing in front of the inn, decades ago — smiling, carefree.
At the edge of the group stood a woman who looked exactly like her.Same face. Same eyes. Same uneasy smile.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She turned the photograph over. On the back, scrawled in the same handwriting as the note:
"The sea remembers everyone it takes."
That night, the fog returned — thicker than before. The inn groaned under the wind's weight.
Elena couldn't sleep. The whispering had started again, faint at first, then clearer, closer.Voices layering over one another, rising and falling with the rhythm of the tide.
"Elena… open the window…"
She pressed her hands to her ears. "No… stop…"
The lamp flickered, then went out completely.
Something moved in the darkness.A reflection on the mirror — her own face, but the eyes were wrong. Empty. Water trickled from her hair as if she had just stepped out of the ocean.
"Elena," it said again, lips moving but voice not hers."Come back to the sea."
She stumbled backward, knocking over the chair.Then, just as suddenly, everything went silent — no whisper, no wind, no sound but the slow, distant pulse of the waves.
She turned toward the window.
It was wide open.
And far below, through the fog, the ocean shimmered faintly like something breathing.