《A Wave's Echo》 Prologue Dreams. Have you ever felt, upon waking up from a dream, that your room wasn''t quite yours? At least, not for a few moments. As if reality had shifted, and you just got yanked away from it. As if what your mind showed you while you were fast asleep wasn''t just made-up. Do you believe that dreams can be passed on, from one person to another? Or that they could predict the future? Do you think the people you meet in your dreams are real? The strangers you swear you have never seen before? Many would say that they are simply a recollection of faces you do not remember noticing, but it never feels true, does it? This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. I know it doesn''t. In my dreams, I started seeing a man. A dark silhouette, facing a never-ending sea. He never turned around. But I knew, deep inside, I had at no point seen anyone like him in my waking life. He would not speak. No matter the questions I threw at him, the answer was always the crashing of the waves and nothing more. I didn''t dare step closer. I wasn''t afraid, not quite. It was something else. Something stronger freezing my legs. Who was he? Why was he here? What was this place? No dream should ever feel like this. No dream should ever feel so real, and yet so distant. Sometimes, I think, the sea would speak to me; I don''t know if it was my mind simply playing tricks on me, but amidst the noise I could hear a voice. And somehow, I started to wonder if it could have been him. Come to me. It would say, and it would sound like pins and needles, like cold drops of water crashing on your face. Come to me. But even then, even with the water beckoning me, I stood still. Because everytime the mere thought of moving forward came to mind, a feeling would overcome me, and grab me by the throat. Had I done so, I would have died. Bells and Graves
"You''re moving?" It''s a Monday morning when the bells ring and my feet find their way to a stand, facing a handful of teary-eyed people. There is a constant buzz in my ears, a subtle ringing; in comparison, every other noise seems distant and muffled. I''m not crying. It''s not that I''m not sad, but it feels as if all tears have already been shed. It''s a pity. If there is one person deserving of my tears, it would be her. How stupid of me to have consumed all of them so quickly. But how could I have known? "Thank you all for coming to celebrate my mother today. I truly appreciate it, and I know she would have as well. If there is only one word I could use to describe her..." The words flow out of my mouth like they have plenty of times before. The buzzing gets a little louder with each sentence. I can feel my chest tightening gradually, as if trying to make up for the lack of any facial expression. As if my body is trying to prove to me that no matter how exhausted I am, I''m still suffering. Even if it doesn''t seem like it. I''m not very close with the few people sitting in front of me. They are my mother''s friends, colleagues, and if I am not mistaken, even one ex-lover. But no one I have anything to do with, except Tristan. He''s sitting at the back, staring at the floor. I had asked him not to come. I told him that I didn''t need him to, and yet he insisted. Maybe I would have done the same in his stead. After all, this is... what? My fourth funeral this year alone? At some point, it started feeling like a curse, and the more it progresses, the worse it becomes. First, it was my grandfather. Then, my grandmother. My uncle was next, and after him, my aunts. I had hoped this fate would spare my parents, but of course, I was mistaken. It took my father next, then my brother, and at last, my mom. I know death is natural. I know that sooner or later it comes for anyone and everyone. But it had been so fast, so sudden, so methodical, that I can''t help but assume it had nothing "natural" about it. Not when it came to my family. And I am next in line. With no more relatives surrounding me, how long will it take for death to knock at my door as well? Am I also doomed? Am I foolish to think I am the exception? But maybe death could be better than this. My body is so consumed with grief that weirdly enough, I can almost no longer feel it. But it is there. And it''s draining. My life is falling into shambles right before my eyes. I can''t bear to live alone in our house anymore. And as much as my boss is willing to understand my situation, my mental health hits rock bottom so often that the mere thought of coming into work has me spiraling. All in all, even if it isn''t quite yet so, it already feels like I''m homeless, jobless, and penniless. It is just a matter of time. "How are you holding up?" An arm sneaks around my shoulders, resting on them and pulling me closer. "That''s a shit question." This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. "Yeah... I know." Tristan is looking down at the patch of dirt where they have just buried my mother. "She was really nice." "She was. I guess it was her turn this time." I find myself kicking the pebbles nearby. I know he''s concerned for me; I can see it in the cloudiness of his gaze and the ever-present wrinkle between his brows. Rightfully so. But it is still weird to be perceived as the one needing comfort, as someone that has always tried to provide it. It''s suffocating. I hate it. "You really believe it''s some sort of curse?" "How can I not? Have you ever seen anything like this happen?" I take a step back, looking him in the eye, searching for a sign that I''m not truly the crazy one. I''m not superstitious. Yet this whole ordeal is making me change my mind. Tristan sighs, scratching the back of his neck. "Look, Ezra, I know this is odd, but it''s not a curse. So stop thinking you will be next. You''ve managed to worry even me." The thing is, Tristan doesn''t understand. He can''t possibly understand. We have been friends since we were in elementary school, and he is probably the one person left in this world to truly know me. But everything around me is starting to change. Should I tell him? He doesn''t know about the dreams, about how vivid they are. About how scary and inviting the sea is. About how that man on the beach has been living in my thoughts, day and night. He doesn''t know that they started right after the beginning of this tragedy that surrounds me. He doesn''t know how much they''ve been plaguing me. Should I just tell him? Would he believe me? Or would he say that it''s just my grief-stricken mind doing a number on me? Would he try to comfort me by saying dreams don''t mean that much? Or would he help me understand them? "Tristan, I..." He looks at me, still slightly worried. I can''t. Not yet. "I''m... moving." "What?! What do you mean you''re moving? When? Where? All by yourself?" He grabs me by my shoulders, pushing me back a little. His eyes are so wide that for a second I find myself thinking they might just pop out of his head. "At least let me come with you!" "No." I rest my hand on his, squeezing it lightly. "I need some time to collect my thoughts. Being in this place now is just... too much. I want a fresh start." "But still... what about money? What about your job?" I look at him, a strained smirk lingering on my lips. He knows money is not the issue. He knows that I''m the only person all my family''s money can go to. I realize he''s grasping at straws, and it does hurt to see him so overwhelmed with worry. I wish it was easier. I wish I could stay. I wish I wasn''t spending all of my nights tossing and turning and waking up with my throat burning dry. "It''s okay. This will be good for me. And we will keep in tou¡ª" Suddenly, he pulls me into an embrace, and I notice for the first time that he''s shaking a little. "I know you, Ezra, I can tell you''ve made up your mind. I get it. I wish you''d stay, but I understand. Please just tell me where you''re going, and I will come to you if you ever need me." I smile against his shoulder, enjoying the warmth he gives off. He might have grown taller and stronger than me, and he might look tough, but I can tell he''s still the same kid that would cry whenever I got a scratch on my knee. "It''s a small town about two hours from here. It''s called Saltwater." *** "Ezra." The wind seems to slap me in the face as I slowly regain consciousness. It''s cold, too cold to move, and I can feel the sand rubbing against my back. "Come back." I open my eyes slowly, fear overcoming me like a hand crawling up my throat, clawing at the inside. I know where I am. I sit up, every fiber of my body begging me not to do so, my bones shuddering as the freezing air pushes me, trying to keep me down. And when I finally manage to tilt my head up, everything around me seems to come to a stop. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, pumping blood faster and faster and faster. I can hear the ringing coming back. The dull buzzing that has been driving me crazy. All of my body tightens as my veins begin to itch under my skin. Usually, I would find myself at the edge of the beach, staring at the silhouette of the man. But this time it''s different. This time, I''m mere inches behind him. And I can tell he''s aware of it. I don''t notice that I''ve stopped breathing. I don''t notice that I''m shaking. I don''t notice that my eyes have been stuck wide open for so long, tears have started forming in them. I don''t notice the sand finding its way into my mouth, my lips cracked open. I don''t notice any of that, my mind too focused on the broad back of the man. That is, until my vision begins turning black, and my head feeling dizzy. Not now. I can''t faint now. I can''t pass away now. He''s too close, the sea''s too violent, the wind''s too cold, this is too dangerous. I can''t lose consciousness. I can''t take my gaze off of him. I can''t. And yet the air won''t find its way into my lungs, no matter how hard I try. I''m scared. I''m scared. I''ll die. "Come back, Ezra." Saltwater Saltwater. An old, forgotten coastal town, hidden by jagged cliffs and facing a rough, restless sea. No matter the season, the grey clouds had always been an ever-present sight, extending for miles on end, making the sky as ominous as the deep water beneath it. The roads covered by cobblestone, having seen both the marching of heels and the fumes of small rusty cars; even the buildings had an air of neglect to them, with colorful paint turned dull and gradually peeling off. The harbor, along with the tiny town square, are probably the most lively parts of town, bustling with dozens of folks wrapped in heavy raincoats, all while the boats covered in barnacles bob quietly in the background. Now and then, a ray of sun manages to find its way through the thick blanket of clouds, bringing life and warmth to both the people and the sea, allowing the few small beaches to shine for a second with their golden sand. It''s easy to breathe in Saltwater, unlike any other town I''ve ever been in. I realize this as soon as the car surpasses the big crooked sign announcing my arrival. Even without being close to the shore, I can still smell the salt and brine, their scent filling my lungs along with the cold air. It''s as if I''d been quietly suffocating my whole life, and I''m only now finally able to allow myself to take in all the oxygen I''ve been desperately searching for. It''s exhilarating. I begin hearing the cry of seagulls the closer I get to the heart of Saltwater, and it almost feels as if they are greeting me; as if they''ve been waiting for me. The car moves at a painfully slow pace, dragging itself along the road, the back seats and the trunk filled to the brim with every last piece of my now past. Maybe it''s time to buy a new one, I think to myself; but I know I will never do it, not unless it breaks and there are no chances of repairing it. After all, this was Dad''s car. He used to love it. "Was the drive okay? Have you arrived yet?" Tristan''s voice resonates inside the car, the speakers vibrating with each word. "Yeah, I''m almost at the house. I hope I wasn''t scammed..." "Nah, no way! It''s not like it''s a touristy place; even I have never heard of Saltwater. They were probably desperate to finally sell it to someone. Oh, by the way, how did you even find that place?" I shrug, even if I know he can''t see me. Almost unwillingly, my eyes shift to the old, yellowed picture resting on the passenger seat. "I don''t know, I just looked for something cheap and this town came up. Plus the sea''s really close; I bet it could be nice in summer." That''s a lie, but Tristan doesn''t need to know it yet. I didn''t just "stumble" upon this town. It had been swirling around in my thoughts for a while. Ever since I was young, there has always been a framed picture on the mantel of my grandparents'' house, hidden by the many family portraits. It was of a beach, with a child sitting down on the sand and laughing. I didn''t recognize him, but upon asking, I was told that it was my great-grandfather. No one else seemed to care much about that specific picture; after all, it had nothing peculiar about it. It was probably just a nice memory from years and years ago that my grandparents thought of framing for old time''s sake. But for me, it was different. I had always been drawn to that photo. I had always been fascinated by the sea in the background, by the cheerful smile of the boy, by the energy it gave off. Sometimes, I remember my parents would find me sitting down, staring at it after hours of looking around for me. I''m not sure what it was about it that had me so enthralled, but even as I grew older, whenever I walked in front of it, my feet would naturally draw to a stop, and my gaze would linger on it for a few moments. Right after the passing of my mother, when I decided it was time for me to start fresh, that picture was the very first that came to mind. It had to be there. I had to go there. Luckily for me, I didn''t have to search much for clues on where it was taken. On the back, written in black ink, was a single word: Saltwater. "Ezra, dude, that place looks anything but nice and sunny; I sincerely doubt it will be that nice in the summer." "Hey, don''t judge. It''s a bit gloomy but I''m sure once the sun''s out it will be fine!" "If you say so..." There''s a noise in the background, and Tristan stops for a second. "Oh, Sarah just came back. I''ll call you later, okay? Keep me updated!" Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. "Yeah, that''s fine; I''ve just arrived anyway. Later." Tristan hangs up, and I''m left in the silence once again, with only the distant seagulls as my companions. The tires screech as I pull over in front of the timeworn building. As soon as I lift my head up to take a better look at it, I notice an old woman standing in front of the door, waving her hand. Next to her is a younger, burly man. "Hi, dear! You must be Ezra, right? Ezra Nerith?" she says, her voice warm and comforting. "You''re right on time!" I step out of the car, dragging the first of the many luggages behind me and flashing a smile to the two of them. "Yes, I''m Ezra; it''s nice to meet you. Thank you for welcoming me." "Oh, of course! Here, follow me; I will show you around the house. Tobias there will help move all your boxes inside, if that''s okay with you? He might look scary but he''s my son; no need to worry!" She lets out a giggle, patting the man on his arm. I shift my gaze to him, and only then do I notice how tall and muscular he truly is. A bit taken aback, I lift my hand to greet him, only for Tobias to nod and trudge towards my car. "Don''t mind him; he''s just shy. His body might be huge but he''s still a scaredy cat." The woman wraps her slim arm around mine, the smell of lavender coming from her coat hitting my nose like a punch. It''s strong, but not unpleasant. It almost reminds me of the old gowns sitting in my own grandma''s closet. "Shall we?" "Yes, ma''am." "Ah, don''t be silly! No need to call me ma''am. I''m Sylvia." Sylvia laughs again, and I can tell she has a lot of energy, even despite her age. I follow her inside, and as soon as I step in, I''m greeted by the smell of burning wood mixed with a hint of mold. I guess it should be expected of an old house near the sea; who knows for how long it has been waiting for someone to bring it back to life? "I hope you don''t mind; since it''s getting a bit chilly we''ve lit up the fire before you arrived. Wouldn''t want you to catch a cold on your first night here!" As she talks, I begin to take in my surroundings. The house is definitely in need of some renovation, but it has a certain charm about it. I''m not sure if it''s because of the antique wooden floors, or the raw stones left uncovered on the walls, or maybe the small, cozy couch covered in blankets sitting right in front of the fireplace, but the more I look at it, the more I feel at home. The kitchen is nestled behind a short half-wall, slightly hidden away from the living room; it''s simple, but functional: stove, oven, and a sink facing a dusty window. All the cabinets are carved from a dark wood, and all the surfaces are covered in terracotta colored tiles. Sylvia grabs my arm gently once more, this time leading me up the creaking stairs. On the second floor, there''s a compact bathroom which seems to be in good enough state, albeit a bit outdated. The hallway is narrow, but the square window right in the middle of it makes up for it, allowing for a bit of natural light to come in. "And now the main event!" She opens the last door in front of us, right at the end of the hallway, revealing what is probably the biggest room in all of the house. On the left, there''s a double bed, and I can tell right away it''s made from a different quality of wood compared to the rest of the house. The duvet on top looks nice and heavy, and the linens seem to be quite expensive as well. On each side of it is a nightstand, both decorated with crocheted doilies on top of which antique lamps are sitting, brightening the room with a soft, warm light. On the right, however, there''s a big library, stacked full with all kinds of books. In the middle of it sits a desk, full of pens and writing utensils neatly arranged. The rug underneath is dark and worn out, but somehow it still manages to bring the room together. "As you might have read on the website, there''s only one thing I ask of anyone that decides to buy this house... to not throw away the furniture." Sylvia stops for a second, her eyes wandering all over the room, and for a brief second I think I can see a distant fondness in them. "You see, everything here belonged to my late husband. If possible, I wish for his books to stay here. Of course you can decorate however you like, and bring more! But if you want to make this old lady happy, please allow the books to stay." She turns her gaze to me, hopeful. "Of course. I actually like how the room looks just as it is." Her lips break into the most genuine smile yet, and I find myself thinking she almost has the expression of a child. "Oh, thank you! What a kind young man you are!" As she pats my arm excitedly, I notice the big painting right above the bed. The whole house is full of art and decor; however, this one in particular has something unusual about it. Before I can catch myself, I take a step toward it, my eyes narrowing slightly. "What...?" It''s a portrait of two men sitting on a beach, one behind the other, staring at an approaching storm and tumultuous sea. Both men are covered in shadows, their traits hidden. Suddenly, I feel a chill run through my whole body. Could this be...? No. It''s not possible. How could my recurring dream have been pictured so perfectly in a painting from who knows how many years ago? A coincidence. Surely, it must be just that. Surely, I must be mistaken. After all, it''s not like the dream had any extraordinary details about it. If I''m being honest, it was actually quite simple. Yes, of course I''m not the first person to envision two men on a beach. Of course. Don''t be stupid, Ezra. But even so, how do I explain the fact that the sea has the exact same ominous feeling that has been choking me in my sleep for the past year? "Oh dear, do you like that painting? It''s beautiful, isn''t it?" Sylvia snaps me out of my trance, and only then do I notice the cold drops of sweat forming on my forehead. "I... Yes, I guess it is..." "It''s actually from a local artist! Isn''t that amazing? He''s a young man just like you, probably around the same age. I hear he''s pretty famous, even outside of Saltwater! When my husband managed to get his hands on one of his works, oh, how thrilled he was!" Local artist? A young man? "Uh... I had no idea. I don''t think I know of him... Um, maybe I should get¡ª" "I''m sure you''ll get to meet him sooner or later; he''s quite the celeb around here." My eyes fall on the tiny, faded signature in the corner of the painting, and for some reason, my heart seems to skip a beat, only to jump into my throat, making it harder and harder to swallow. That name... I''m sure I''ve never seen it before in my entire life. So why...? "His name is Viktor. Viktor Morskoy." *** Moonlit Waves more specifically, from that painting. "Well dear, if you need anything, I''ve left a note with my number on the kitchen counter. Don''t hesitate to call me!" she had said, with Tobias by her side. "Oh, and since you''re so young, if you ever want to have a nice evening out you''re welcome to swing by the bar next to the town square. My Tobias works there, he''ll take care of you!" With that, and another brief nod from Tobias, she walked out of the door and into the night, leaving me alone with my scattered thoughts, rushing up the stairs and back to the edge of the bed. It''s weird; the more I look at it, the more the painting seems to have the same strange pull that my great-grandfather''s picture seemed to have on me. But yet, no matter how hard I try, I can''t bring myself to find a single logical reason as to why that might be. Feeling my eyes beginning to burn, I finally take a step back and make my way downstairs. Viktor. "Viktor..." The word escapes my lips before I have the time to realize it, and I can''t help but raise a hand to cover them. The name rolls out smooth on my tongue, with a sharp turn in the middle, and if I didn''t know any better I would say it feels natural to call it. Like I''ve done it hundreds, thousands of times before. Like it belongs in my mouth. Like my voice had been given to me just to pronounce it. Get a fucking grip, Ezra. Sighing, I throw myself on the couch, eyes glazing over the dancing flames in front of me. I just need to stop thinking; then, maybe, the buzzing in my ears will finally come to a rest. I just need to... Suddenly, a light flashes from behind me, coming from the kitchen and casting my shadow over the fireplace. "Mom?" Instinctively, my head spins around so fast that I''m lucky my neck isn''t broken, expecting to see my mother standing in the kitchen, preparing for dinner. But of course, there''s no one. I guess, after all, this could also be the reason for my recent behavior. No matter how dull I might perceive it to be, I can''t just ignore the grief sitting in my heart like a brick tied to my ankles, dragging me down further and further. I miss her. I really do. I miss all of them. And yet it feels like I''m ignoring their memory. Dreams, paintings, silhouettes... I''ve been so occupied with all of this nonsense, that I''ve forgotten to actually feel the hurt I''m holding inside. That''s it. Getting up from the couch, I grab my jacket from the chair next to it and make my way to the front door. If the flames won''t help me calm down, then maybe the stars will. As soon as I step foot outside, I''m greeted by the cold wind blowing in my face, sending shivers all over my body. Arms hugging each other, my feet begin walking on their own, without a clear destination. I need to move. I need to feel the air in my lungs, I need to feel the sweat on my back, and I need to move. It doesn''t take long before my surroundings begin catching my attention, away from everything else. Saltwater may be gloomy during the day, but at night, it''s almost haunting. Despite my best efforts, I can''t find a single lit-up window, nor a soul wandering around the streets. The only sound I can hear now and then is the faint cry of a distant dog, followed shortly after by a firm shushing. Perhaps it''s just a less frequented part of town, but the more I explore it, the more the buildings seem to turn into ruins, the paint to flake off, and the road to deteriorate, to the point where I''m afraid I''ll sprain my ankle if I shift my gaze even for a second. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! Still, my feet keep guiding me in this direction. I can tell the sea is getting closer, as the saline smell grows stronger with each step. At the end of the narrow street, I can see an opening, facing a beach with the white moon shining right in the middle. Almost as if in a trance, I follow it, eager to feel the pale light on my skin. I pick up the pace, breaking into a jog, and then into a full-on sprint. The sea has never looked so inviting before, nor the moon so enticing. I can picture myself already, throwing off my clothes and shoes, toes buried in the cool sand, only to finally dive into the freezing waters, allowing it to strip away all of my concerns. Allowing me to feel free, even if just for a minute. I''m finally about to reach the edge of the cobblestone when something stops me dead in my tracks. Something, or rather, someone. I''m not sure how my body alone managed to notice it, but even without seeing it, I know. I know there''s someone else nearby. Eyes stuck wide open, I slowly, painfully slowly, let my gaze shift to the left until it sets on a man. He''s sitting on one of the rocks closer to the water, head hanging low, as if focused on something resting on his legs. I don''t think he has noticed me, not yet, but I can still feel every cell in my body screaming at me to turn back and run away. There''s something about him. Something I can''t quite point out, that is setting off all the alarms in me. Maybe it''s because we''re in the middle of the night, or maybe it''s because I haven''t seen anyone else the whole time I''ve been outside, but I can''t shake off the feeling that this man is not safe. Holding my breath as best as possible, I cautiously attempt to turn around, before I am stopped once again. This time, by a voice. "Leaving already?" It has a sort of playful tone to it, almost mockingly so. The man on the beach has now lifted his head and is looking at the waves straight ahead, arms stretched behind him to hold himself up. "You could at least say hi." His voice is airy, with the slightest hint of grittiness in the back of the throat; it''s welcoming and relaxed, tempting even, naturally inviting you in. It takes me a few moments before I can put together a coherent thought. "H...Hello. Um, sorry for barging in on you like this. I was, uh, on a run. Well... Goodni¡ª" Before I can finish my sentence, the man lets out a quiet giggle. "Why are you so nervous? Am I that scary?" "I''m¡ªI''m not nervous. Just... startled." He hums, before turning to the side a little, allowing the moonlight to fall on his cheekbones. Reflexively, I squint my eyes a little, as if trying to catch a glimpse of his features. "Startled by what? Never seen a guy on the beach?" I don''t know why, but the more he speaks, the easier I find it for the words to flow out of me. It''s like he''s casting a spell on me; with each and every sentence, I catch myself letting my guard go down, more and more and more. "Well... I just moved in today and, um... There''s not a single soul around so I didn''t expect to run into anyone, that''s all..." "I admit it is pretty quiet at night on this side of town, but that''s why I like it." The man throws his head back slightly, as if contemplating something. "Hey, since it''s just us two, mind joining me? I was starting to get bored." "Me?! Ah!" My voice comes out so loud, I can''t stop myself from slapping my hands on my mouth. He laughs once again, warm and contagious. "Who else? Come on, don''t leave me hanging. There''s space for the both of us here." Against my own judgment, I quietly step towards him. What am I even doing? Why am I going along with this? Why am I ignoring the signs my body is trying to give me? Why can''t I just go back home? But the closer I get to him, and the more of him I take in, the quieter the voices in my head become. I can now see his hair, and I realize that it wasn''t the moon making it look unique: it is actually grey. A light, cool shade of grey, with a few strands closer to being almost white. Mesmerized, I climb on top of the rocks, struggling to find my balance and make the last push to where he''s sitting, until I feel a hand grab my arm. "Come on, one last push." He pulls me up, his grip surprisingly strong, and suddenly, I''m laying on my side next to him, scrambling to regain my composure. "Don''t mention it." "Um, by the way, my name is..." Once I''m settled down, I finally turn to him, and I think that''s the biggest mistake I''ve ever made in my life. I almost cannot believe my eyes. The man is staring at me, head cocked to the side with his ear resting gently atop of his shoulder. His wavy hair falling lazily on his forehead, his eyes hiding a touch of amusement. No matter how hard I try, I can''t seem to stop looking at them. Sometimes, words cannot be used to describe what you''re seeing. And I believe not even a poet would be able to capture just how world-stopping the color of his eyes was, at least for me. If I had to put it into a sentence, I think the only correct way to picture them would be as the ocean. But not a calm, serene ocean. They were deep, too deep, as if one could easily fall and be trapped into them had he wished them to; they were a violent ocean, the type of ocean you read of in books, where pirates have met their fate and sirens have sung their eerie songs for centuries. The type of ocean that is so dark you can''t avoid fearing what''s hiding beneath its surface, lurking and waiting for the next prey. The deepest blue of murky water, broken only by the white of menacing waves. "Hello? Cat''s got your tongue?" A smirk graces his lips, and I''m ripped out of the fog clouding my brain. He knows. He knows what he does to people, and he clearly enjoys it. "...Ezra." I manage not to stutter, but my voice still comes out as merely more than a whisper. He''s beautiful; there''s no denying it. He''s the most beautiful person I''ve ever seen. He''s so fascinating, I start believing that not even an entire night''s worth of admiring could possibly be enough to take the entirety of his allure in. Then and there, I understand. He''s not like me. He''s not like everyone else. He''s different; he''s nothing close to my dark, jet black hair and dull eyes. He''s the type of man people die for. "That''s a pretty name. Ezra." He extends his hand once again, this time for me to hold. Reluctantly, I follow along, wrapping my fingers around him, his palm as cold as the night air. "I''m Viktor. It''s nice to finally meet you." *** Lighthouse Library "I''m Viktor. It''s nice to finally meet you." Time stops for a second as I try to process that brief but eerie sentence. For starters, his name instantly sends shivers down my spine. Viktor. The man behind that ominous painting that almost had me spiraling. He pronounces it differently than how I did; when I tried, it felt natural and light, with an enigmatic and foreign aftertaste. When he does, it sounds like royalty; like it should be called with head held high and reverence. It is that much more magnetic. But the second thing that leaves me with my jaw hanging slightly open is a detail that I can''t help but notice right away. Finally. It''s nice to finally meet you. Thoughts rush into my brain all at once, and I can hardly organize them. What is he trying to say with that? Does he know me? Has he been waiting for me? Am I missing something here? I''m sure I''ve never seen him; he''s not a man that can be forgotten, I could bet my life on that. He also doesn''t seem like the type of person to choose his words recklessly, I''m positive. There''s something in the way he speaks that lets me know he doesn''t do it just to exchange a few pleasantries. He talks with purpose and meaning. So it must not be a coincidence that he let that one thing slip out. Silence hangs over our heads like a heavy blanket, and I can see him studying my reaction, as if testing me. As if waiting for my next move. But unfortunately, I cannot offer much besides a dubious reply. "Finally? What do you mean?" I say, still slightly flustered, and I almost regret it as soon as I''m finished. Viktor purses his lips, and for many, it would be an almost invisible movement to detect; but for me, who''s been staring at him as if a ghost had just risen from the sea, it is impossible not to catch. He seems to be pondering, maybe on what to say next, before smiling innocently. "Well, it''s just that I''ve heard from Sylvia that someone would be moving here soon. I assume it''s you, since your face is new to me." "Right... Yes, I came here this afternoon. I thought I''d look around a bit. Actually..." I''m not sure if I should continue with my sentence, but something inside of me is telling me to do it. I want to surprise him. His eyes give me the impression that what I''ve told him so far wasn''t what he wanted, and it might be just my mind toying with me once again, but one thing I''m sure of, no matter how strange and incomprehensible it is: I don''t want to bore him. "You know, there''s a painting in the house I''m buying from Sylvia. I think it''s yours. She seems to be a fan." "Oh?" Viktor''s ears perk up, his whole demeanor shifting ever so slightly. I caught his attention. To be truthful, it''s not only a desire to impress him that is motivating me. After all, that painting is still a mystery; and it just so happens that his creator is sitting right in front of me. So, it may go against the alarm system built within me, but I should probably take the chance to try and understand what is going on. Or at the very least, allow myself to clear some doubts. "I remember selling it to her husband. I thought it would look great in their home. Did you like it, Ezra?" There''s a twinkle in his eyes, but it could as well just be the reflection of the moon above us. However, I can''t ignore the childish, unintentional grin cracking the side of his lips. I swallow, my throat dry, a feeling similar to fear rising to my chest. "No. The technique is good I think, but the image is just... scary. I hated it." Silence. Nothing but silence surrounds us, the only exception being the crashing of the waves against the rocks. That is, until Viktor laughs. A genuine, infectious laugh. He throws his head back, placing a hand on his belly to maintain his posture. There are tears forming in his eyes, and he''s so absorbed in the amusement he''s feeling that I notice he''s beginning to slip off of the nook he''s sitting in. "Hey, be careful...!" I lunge forward, grabbing him by his arm, trying to stop him from falling over and into the sea. Viktor calms down slowly, and I feel his fingers brush against my knuckles, only to hold them shortly after. He looks at me, wiping the single tear that managed to make its way across his cheek, and I realize then that not only have I grabbed his attention, I''ve entertained him. Not in the comedic, "jokes between friends" way. No. I''ve entertained him enough to awaken something in him. He leans towards me, hand still latched onto mine, his face coming merely a few inches from my own. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. "We agree on that." His eyes suddenly shrink, turning into two crescent moons. "I like you, Ezra. I''m sure we will get along." *** It''s almost three in the morning when I make my way back home. After Viktor had said that, an uneasy feeling had come over me. Realizing I wouldn''t get much more on that painting out of him, and that I probably needed time to organize my thoughts, I had quickly said my goodbye, and wished him a good evening. "Don''t be a stranger." That was the last thing he said, before turning his attention back to the water and the notebook he had been holding before my interruption. Sighing, I make my way towards the stairs, before stopping in my tracks. Do I really want to sleep there? My immediate answer is no. But perhaps due to our encounter, something inside of me akin to pride begins whispering in my ear that I should just get over myself and go to sleep under that cursed painting. After all, what could possibly go wrong? Filled with resolution, I decide to keep walking, all the way to the bedroom and in front of the bed. After slipping under the covers, with an ominous feeling brewing in the pit of my stomach, I finally turn off the lights. The world turns black, setting the scene on my first day in Saltwater. Unsurprisingly, what I find waiting for me after my waking mind has been set to sleep is a familiar, gloomy beach. With an equally familiar silhouette towering over me. Just like in my previous dream, I''m sitting closer to him than usual, my heartbeat as fast and frantic as ever. But this time, the sea is much more violent. And with it, the voice calling for me. You came. I look out at the waves, eyes wide open with shock. What? I had never, ever heard the sea whisper anything besides "Come back." What was happening now? Why was it suddenly changing? You came, Ezra. There''s another noise now, a bit lower, a bit deeper, a bit worse. It sounds like laughing. It sounds like laughing, but in my ears it feels like needles. It''s a raw and uncomfortable laughter, one that is seeping with evil, that I can tell right away is malignant both in intent and tone. But its sound is so feeble and distant, that I cannot make much out of it. I turn to the silhouette, fear gripping my throat, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel my teeth aching. I must not forget him. I must not let him move. But when I turn to him, he''s standing still as always. Only one thing is different this time. My eyes shift to his hands, resting on the sides of the chair he''s always sitting in. Unlike in the other dreams, where I would find them clenching into fists, they are relaxed. And his index finger is pointing somewhere. I follow it, confusion almost overtaking my terror, until I see it. There''s writing on the sand. Hurried, scrambled writing, that must have been made shortly before I arrived. Why are you here? *** Sunlight shines on my face as I wake up, my whole body covered in sweat and the duvet thrown onto the ground. Opening my eyes, the first image to greet me is that of the painting. It''s almost funny how my misfortune seems to be permeating every aspect of my life. Before, I could at the very least find comfort and peace in my own bed after escaping from the nightmares. Now, I am forced to see them again, as if laughing at me. I sigh, my head full with too many thoughts, and I force myself to sit up and out of the bed. I don''t know what''s going on. I don''t know why this last dream was so different. It makes sense to think that the change would be due to my moving to Saltwater, but still, why would that be connected? Why would this town be relevant? Why would my mind have been telling me for so long to come here, a place I have never been in my whole life? And, most importantly, what is the meaning of the writing on the sand? Is it the man that wrote it? But why? Why would he not simply speak? And why, if all along my dreams have been telling me to come to Saltwater, would he be asking for my reasoning? It doesn''t make any sense. And frankly, I don''t think I want it to, nor do I want to think too deeply about it. Not today. I''ve spent so long mulling over a possible explanation, that maybe I deserve to have a normal day for once. Just this once. I change clothes quickly, and make my way outside. I want to clear my head a bit, and even if last night''s walk wasn''t of any help, maybe the sun will bring me some serenity. Once again, my feet take the lead, and I allow them to; after all, it''s not like I have a map or any knowledge of this city, so I might as well explore. This time, however, I am walking in the opposite direction. Contrary to yesterday, it seems that the more I walk, the more the streets turn busy, with townsfolk walking around in their heavy coats and children running with their hands held together. The bells from the campanile in the town square ring, and a few of them gasp, fastening their pace, probably late for school. It''s nice. I do realize that Saltwater is quite gloomy; however, it seems that today the clouds have allowed for the sun to stretch his rays a little bit further than usual, warming the cobblestone and bringing life to the flowers on the various windowsills. It doesn''t take much longer before I reach an opening in the road, coming face to face with a beautiful albeit a bit dilapidated fountain in the middle, and a small church to the side. Here, I can now see various stalls, each of them selling something different, ranging from clothes to meats to, of course, fresh fish. It''s the town square, arguably the most lived-in area of Saltwater. I take a deep breath in, enjoying the smell of roasted chestnuts being served at one of the stalls, and I slowly begin making my way all around. This is what I needed. Compared to the city I grew up in, this is certainly not my usual scenery. Not at all. But still, there''s something about it that is making me feel truly at home, like I''ve never felt before. Maybe it''s because this is the type of place I would read about in books or see in animated movies, but it feels so nostalgic and tender in my heart that I could almost tear up. So this is what peace feels like. It doesn''t matter what happened last night. It doesn''t matter what happened in my dream. It doesn''t matter who Viktor is, and it doesn''t matter what my connection to Saltwater stems from. None of it matters. Right now, I just want to feel normal. And as this thought dances around in my mind, something in the distance catches my attention. I squint a little, walking towards it a bit faster. It''s a wooden sign, much older than any other I''ve seen in the square, with the letters painted on it already mostly faded. Still, I can''t help but be fascinated by it, and for some reason, before I can make any actual decision, my feet lead me forward and into the doorway. This, I think, this could be useful. Lighthouse Library.