“It’s not nothing,” I insist, standing. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Her laughter is soft, bitter. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
She stands abruptly, moving to the window. Her reflection stares back at me, fractured and ghostly in the glass. “You’ve built me up so much in your head, Calum. This perfect, untouchable version of me. But that’s not who I am.”
“I know who you are,” I say, my voice firm. “I love who you are.”
“Do you?” She turns to face me, her expression unreadable. “Or do you love the idea of me?”
The question cuts deeper than I expect, leaving me raw and exposed. But before I can respond, she moves past me, her hand brushing mine.
“I’m tired,” she says, her voice flat. “Let’s talk in the morning.”
She disappears into the bathroom, the door closing softly behind her. And I’m left standing in the dim light, the weight of her words pressing down on me like the tide.
Chapter One
Calum
The rain begins as I pull into the gravel drive of Holiday House. The cottage looms ahead, its white clapboard siding dulled by the storm, the windows dark. Ravensreach is all shadows and sharp edges tonight, the kind of place where the sea howls louder than the wind and the trees bend under the weight of secrets.
I cut the engine and sit in the silence for a moment, the rhythmic patter of rain on the windshield the only sound. My fingers clutch the steering wheel like it might keep me grounded, but nothing feels real anymore. Not the storm, not the cottage, not the hollow ache in my chest where Annabel used to live.
I step out into the rain, my boots sinking into the soft gravel as the wind pushes against me. By the time I reach the door, I’m soaked, my coat heavy with water. My hand hesitates on the brass handle, the chill of the metal biting through my skin. I don’t want to go inside.
But I do.
The door creaks open, and the scent hits me first—jasmineand something floral, faint but unmistakable. Annabel’s perfume lingers in the air, clinging to the walls like a ghost. I close the door behind me and lean against it, my chest tight, my breath coming in shallow bursts.
The living room is exactly as we left it. Her scarf draped over the rocking chair in the corner. A wine glass with the faintest trace of red still sitting on the coffee table. The painting I made of her hangs over the fireplace, her face turned toward the viewer, a smirk pulling at her lips like she knows something you don’t. It’s as if she’s still here, favorite blanket draped over her lap as she stares out at the churning sea.
“Annabel,” I whisper, the name catching in my throat. Saying it feels like a betrayal, as if speaking it might tether her spirit here, keep her from wherever she’s supposed to be.
The wind howls outside, rattling the windows, and for a moment, I think I hear her laugh. That breathy, careless sound that used to drive me mad, equal parts enchantment and torment.
Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.She seems to call out to me.
But it’s only the storm, mocking me.
I shrug off my coat, letting it fall to the floor, and move deeper into the house. Every step feels weighted, like I’m trespassing on sacred ground. Her presence is everywhere, woven into the fabric of this place. The throw pillows she insisted on buying. The stack of books on the side table, each with her scrawled notes in the margins. The record player in the corner, still cued to one of her favorite jazz albums.
I can almost see her here, leaning against the counter, her hair falling into her face as she teases me about something trivial, her voice light and full of mischief.
“You’re staring again,”she’d say, her lips quirking into that infuriating smile.
“Maybe I like staring,” I’d reply, and she’d roll her eyes but secretly love it.
I set the cup down carefully, as if it might shatter under the weight of my grief. My hand trembles, and I clench it into a fist, willing myself to hold it together. The house is too quiet, too still. It feels wrong, like the world has been muted since she left.
I move to the bedroom, the place I’ve been dreading most. The door creaks as I push it open, and the sight hits me like a punch to the gut. The bed is unmade, the sheets tangled from the last night we spent here. Her robe hangs on the back of the chair, and her hairbrush sits on the vanity, strands of midnight black still caught in the bristles.
I step inside, my chest tightening as I take it all in. The scent of her perfume is stronger here, almost suffocating. I sit on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, and let the memories wash over me.
The first time we came here, she was radiant, a sunbeam cutting through the storm clouds of my life. She twirled in the living room, her arms outstretched, her laugh filling the space like music.
“This place is perfect for us,”she’d said, her eyes shining.“Don’t you think, Calum?”
