Moonhaven was the kind of town tourists loved,
not because it was perfect,
but because it pretended to be.
Evening lights lined the pier like floating lanterns, reflecting on the quiet waves. The last fishing boats returned, engines sighing after a long day at sea. Wind carried the scent of salt and grilled shrimp from the food stalls.
It looked peaceful.
Harry Ashford didn't trust peaceful.
He leaned on the railing, eyes following the lighthouse at the pier's end. Tall, weather-worn, and a little too serious for a town this cheerful. The white paint peeled like old memories trying to fade.
Harry was seventeen. Slim, average height, dark hair that never listened. His face was calm, thinking, always noticing too much. People said he had "quiet eyes" — a poetic way to say "he saw more than he should".
Especially the night his parents never came home.
A rustle from his jacket broke the silence. A black cat climbed out with fluid confidence, settling beside him on the railing.
Milo.
Smooth fur like spilled ink.
Eyes sharp enough to slice a secret open.
Unlike other cats, Milo talked.
Only to Harry.
"Someone's staring," Milo murmured.
Harry didn't look away from the sea. "Who?"
"Your trauma," Milo replied flatly.
Harry exhaled a small laugh through his nose. Milo wasn't cute - he was honest. Brutally.
Harry closed his sketchbook - tonight's unfinished drawing of the lighthouse staring back at him like it knew something.
"You know," Milo said, "normal people draw sunsets, not giant towers with abandonment issues."
"It interests me," Harry replied.
"I'm concerned for your hobbies."
His phone buzzed.
Unknown Number
Harry rarely got messages. Especially not ones that changed the air around him.
"Come to the pier,
I know what happened to your parents"
The world didn't stop —
but Harry did.
Milo saw the message — because yes, he could read.
"Nope," Milo muttered. "Suspicious text. Bad vibes. We go home."
But Harry was already moving.
"Harry—!" Milo hissed, scrambling to his shoulder. "Minimum decision time should be more than one second! Like… three seconds!"
Harry didn't react.
Couldn't.
Someone knew something.
As he approached the end of the pier, the atmosphere thickened. Police tape. Flashing lights. Officers marking a scene the town wasn't used to.
Moonhaven didn't do crime.
Not this kind.
People whispered behind their hands:
"—Professor Hale…"
"…worked at the university…"
"…studied wrecks… old myths…"
Harry recognized the name. Hale had once tried speaking to him — something about his parents' expedition. Harry avoided the conversation.
Regret stung.
"Let's go home," Milo whispered, low. "We're not meant to be here."
Harry didn't respond.
His mind was sharp — analyzing.
The body was twenty feet away. Police distracted. Lanterns flickered in the wind.
Then — Harry's gaze latched onto something that didn't belong.
A worn leather satchel resting near the benches.
Damp from sea spray.
Scuffed from travel.
Not tagged or collected.
Like it had been placed there… deliberately.
Milo's fur bristled.
"That thing screams trouble."
"It has my name on it," Harry said quietly.
Milo stared. "That makes it worse."
Harry ducked beneath the tape when no one looked. Every step was calculated — silent. He reached the satchel and knelt beside it.
The tag read:
To: Harry Ashford
Fear and curiosity twisted together inside him.
He opened the flap.
Inside:
☆ A compass
— rusted, symbols engraved deeply into its frame
— cracked glass trembling
☆ A folded note
— the paper rough from water
☆ A small journal
— soaked, unreadable for now
Harry lifted the compass.
It clung to his palm like it chose him.
The needle spun violently.
Not north.
Not anywhere found on maps.
Milo's voice was barely a breath.
"Harry. That's not a normal object."
Harry set the compass against his leg and opened the note.
"Evernight is real.
Protect the compass.
They are already close."
Evernight.
His parents whispered that word once —
He wasn't supposed to hear.
He wasn't supposed to remember.
A chill crawled across his skin.
The compass needle suddenly stopped.
And pointed — sharply — toward the lighthouse.
The lighthouse door groaned… then opened,
slow and deliberate.
As if acknowledging him.
The crowd gasped.
Officers paused.
A wrong silence fell.
Milo's voice turned from sarcasm to warning:
"We need to move. We need to forget this. Immediately."
Harry stared ahead, heart slamming.
Logic told him to leave.
But logic had never given him answers.
"If… if my parents left this for me…"
Harry began, voice unsteady,
"then I can't walk away."
Milo didn't argue.
He just stared, then said quietly:
"If you go… I'm with you."
Harry closed his fist around the compass.
The cold metal felt like fate.
The lighthouse loomed — door open like a mouth ready to speak.
Harry didn't step forward.
Not yet.
He just looked at the darkness and whispered:
"This is the first clue I've ever gotten."
His choice wasn't made aloud.
But it echoed inside him like a promise:
Tomorrow —
he would go inside.
Tonight —
he finally had a lead.
And somewhere in the water below…
something watched the boy who dared pick up the compass.
Its eyes opened.
Hungry.