I turn back to the painting on the easel, my breath hitching at what I see. Her expression has changed. The serene smile is gone, replaced by something darker—sorrowful, accusatory. Her eyes seem to follow me, glinting with an emotion I can’t name but recognize all the same.
“You’re losing it,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair. “This is just... exhaustion. Lack of sleep. That’s all.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. Something is happening here, something I can’t explain or control. I glance at the letter on the floor, the strange symbol burned into my mind. It feels like a warning, a message from beyond the veil.
I step closer to the painting, my hands shaking as I reach out. My fingers hover over the canvas, inches from her face, and for a moment, I swear I can feel her warmth radiating from the paint. It’s impossible, but then again, so is everything else that’s happened since I came back to this godforsaken place.
“Who failed you, Annabel?” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Was it me? Was it Jonathan? What are you trying to tell me?”
The painting offers no answers, only the silent torment of her gaze. I turn away, unable to bear it any longer. The room feels like it’s closing in on me, the walls pressing closer with every breath.
I grab the letter from the floor and fold it carefully, tucking it into my pocket. Whatever this symbol means, whatever message she’s trying to send—I’ll figure it out. I have to. For her. For us.
The storm outside intensifies, the wind howling like a chorus of ghosts. The windows rattle in their frames, and for a moment, I think I hear her voice carried on the wind—a soft, lilting laugh that sends chills down my spine.
I sit back at the easel, my hands trembling as I pick up the brush again. The image of her face burns in my mind, more vivid than ever. I can’t stop now, not when I’m so close. The need to finish the painting consumes me, a fire in my veins that won’t be extinguished.
The brush moves of its own accord, the strokes frenzied and desperate. Her eyes become darker, her lips fuller, her skin more lifelike with every pass. The air grows colder still, the scent of decay mingling with the jasmine, and I swear I can hear the faint rustle of fabric, like someone shifting in the room.
I don’t stop. I can’t. The world narrows to the canvas and the brush in my hand, the lines and colors coming together in a symphony of obsession. Her face shifts beneath my strokes, becoming more vivid, more real—and more haunting.
When I finally step back, my heart pounds in my chest like a war drum. The painting is finished, but it’s not what I intended. Her face is beautiful, yes, but it’s twisted with fear, her eyes wide and filled with tears. And behind her, barely visible in the shadows, is a figure—a looming presence I didn’t paint but can’t deny.
I collapse into the chair, my vision swimming as the room spins around me. The taste of ash is stronger now, choking me, filling my lungs. And then, as if to confirm my worst fears, the painting shifts. Her lips part, and a scream erupts from thecanvas—a sound so raw, so filled with anguish, that it shatters the glass of the window behind me.
“You killed me!” Annabel’s voice roars, her painted form coming alive before my eyes.
I fall back, my heart slamming against my ribs as terror surges through me. The room explodes in chaos—the wind howling, the windows slamming, the scent of death suffocating me. I claw at the floor, desperate to escape, but her voice follows me, relentless and unforgiving.
“You killed me!” she screams again, her face contorted with rage and sorrow. “You did this!”
And then, with a final, gut-wrenching cry, the room falls silent. The wind dies, the scent fades, and the painting is still once more. But the echo of her voice lingers, a haunting refrain that will never leave me.
I lie on the floor, my chest heaving, my mind shattered. The letter burns in my pocket, the symbol etched into my soul. Whatever this is, whatever she’s trying to tell me—it’s not over. It’s only just begun.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Calum
The morning comes heavy with fog, the air thick enough to cling to my skin as I set up my easel outside. The cliffs stretch ahead, jagged teeth biting into the restless ocean below. It’s the kind of day Annabel loved—gray and unpredictable, where the sea seemed alive with secrets.
The easel stands steady against the uneven ground, and I pull out a fresh canvas, its surface glaringly white. Another painting, another attempt to capture her essence, to bring her back. My brushes feel worn, like me—overused, stretched to their limits.
This one will be different, I tell myself. This one will be perfect.
The cliffs where she fell loom in the distance, their presence like a gaping wound. I’ve painted them before, of course, countless times in the weeks since her death. But never from this angle, never with this perspective. I press the charcoal to the canvas, sketching the scene before me—the rough outline of the cliffs, the wild brush of the sea, and in the center, her figure emerging like a memory I can’t erase.
“Just you and me again, Annabel,” I murmur, my voice swallowed by the wind.
As the image takes shape, my focus narrows. The brush moves, following instinct more than thought, and her face appears on the canvas—her lips curved in that maddeningly playful smile, her eyes holding secrets that no painting could ever fully contain. She seems alive, more alive than I feel in this moment.
The sound of voices drifts up from below, sharp and urgent. I glance over the edge and spot two figures standing near the base of the cliffs. One of them I recognize immediately: Jonathan. His broad shoulders are tense, his hands gesturing wildly as he argues with a fisherman whose face is weathered like the sea itself.
I strain to hear them over the crash of the waves, but their words are lost to the wind. My stomach knots, a sick sense of unease settling over me. Jonathan’s presence here feels wrong, intrusive. He has no right to be near these cliffs, not after what happened.
The fisherman raises his voice, loud enough for fragments of his words to carry. “...saw you that night... meeting her here...”
The charcoal slips from my fingers, tumbling to the ground as the meaning of his words sinks in. Meeting her? Annabel? My pulse pounds, my hands clenching into fists as I watch Jonathan step closer to the fisherman, his movements aggressive, defensive.
