Finn felt a flutter of something he couldn't name. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, she had such an interesting way of seeing time in stories,” Mrs. Patterson continued, her voice warm with memory. “She'd talk about books like she'd lived through them personally. Could tell you exactly how the characters felt in ways that went beyond just good reading comprehension.” She paused, studying Finn's face. “She used to say some people experience stories differently—more deeply, across different layers of time.”
The words hit Finn strangely, creating an echo he couldn't quite place. He'd always assumed his mother's passion for books was just that—passion. But Mrs. Patterson was suggesting something else, something that felt important even if he couldn't grasp why.
“I never really thought about it that way,” Finn said carefully.
“Well, you're young yet. Sometimes these things develop over time.” Mrs. Patterson tucked her book into her purse with satisfaction. “She always said you had the same gift, you know. Said you'd understand someday.”
After Mrs. Patterson left, Finn found himself staring at the biography section where his mother used to spend hours, running her fingers along the spines like she was reading Braille. He'd thought it was just her love of history, but what if it had been something more?
Around noon, Professor Hendricks from the university stopped by looking for maritime histories for his research. While Finn pulled the relevant volumes, the elderly academic made casual conversation about local book collectors.
“Your mother had quite the unique perspective on historical texts,” Professor Hendricks mentioned, accepting a first-edition whaling account with reverent hands. “She could discuss these maritime journals like she'd spoken to the captains personally. Most remarkable historical intuition I've ever encountered.”
“Historical intuition?” Finn repeated, that same flutter of recognition stirring in his chest.
“The way she could extrapolate from fragments, understand the emotional context behind the words. She'd point out details in ship logs that trained historians missed—subtle signs of crew tension, evidence of storms that weren't explicitly mentioned.” Professor Hendricks shook his head in admiration. “Almost like she could see the whole story when the rest of us only had pieces.”
Finn helped him carry the books to his car, but the professor's words stuck with him long after he'd driven away. His mother's “gift” was starting to sound less like exceptional scholarship and more like something that ran parallel to his own mysterious episodes.
Crescent Beach was even more spectacular than River had described, all dramatic cliffs and hidden pools that looked like nature's secret artwork. River was waiting by scientific equipment, and when he spotted Finn, his whole face transformed with this smile that made Finn's stomach do something that definitely wasn't scientifically explainable.
“You made it!” River called, jogging over like an excited golden retriever. “And you dressed perfectly. Most people show up in flip-flops and wonder why they can't navigate wet rocks.”
“Lucky guess,” Finn said, though his boots felt like old friends and his body seemed to know exactly how to distribute weight on uneven surfaces.
River was wearing a wetsuit unzipped to his waist, neoprene sleeves tied around his hips, and a faded t-shirt that clung to his shoulders in ways that made Finn's mouth go dry. Salt water had dried in his hair, leaving it tousled and wild, and there was something about seeing him in his natural element that made Finn's heart do embarrassing acrobatics.
“Okay, ground rules,” River said, professional demeanor not quite hiding his obvious excitement. “These ecosystems are incredibly fragile, so we move slowly and watch where we step. Don't touch anything unless I say it's okay. And try not to fall in—the water's about fifty degrees.”
River launched into enthusiastic explanations about tidal patterns and ecosystem complexity, and Finn found himself completely absorbed. Not just politely interested—genuinely fascinated. River's passion was infectious, but more than that, River himself was magnetic. The way he gestured with his whole body when excited. The way he crouched down to point out tiny details like they were precious gems.
“This is a whole city,” River said, indicating a large tide pool. “Look—there's drama, politics, romance, survival. It's like a soap opera, but with more tentacles and better special effects.”
Finn burst out laughing. “Did you just compare marine biology to a soap opera?”
“Hey, you haven't seen the territorial disputes between sea anemones. It gets intense.” River grinned boyishly. “Last week I watched this epic battle over prime real estate that lasted three hours. Better than any reality TV.”
As they moved between pools, River's enthusiasm never flagged. He pointed out camouflaged species hiding among rocks and kelp, explained complex feeding relationships with the excitement of someone sharing state secrets.
But Finn found himself experiencing these weird moments where he'd spot something before River pointed it out, or know which rocks were stable without testing them first. When River mentioned hermit crab shell-swapping behavior, Finn nodded and said, “Right, and they form little queues when someone finds a really good shell, like they're waiting in line at the DMV.”
River stopped and stared at him. “How did you know that?”
“I... good guess?” Finn felt heat creep up his neck. “You're a really good teacher?”
“That's not something you'd guess. That's specific behavioral knowledge.” But River looked more intrigued than suspicious. “Have you been secretly studying marine biology?”
“Maybe my subconscious is just really into learning?”
River studied his face with careful attention. “You keep surprising me. Most people need multiple exposures before they can distinguish between similar species, but you're picking up identification patterns like you've been doing this for years.”
They were examining a particularly diverse pool when River got excited about what he swore was a juvenile octopus hiding under kelp. Finn leaned forward for a better look, and his foot hit a slick patch of seaweed. He pitched forward with a very undignified yelp, but instead of face-planting into salt water, he found himself caught against River's chest.
“Whoa there,” River said, arms solid and warm around Finn's shoulders. “I've got you.”
The catch had required quick reflexes and surprising strength, and suddenly Finn was very aware of the muscles in River's arms, the steady way he held him upright, the careful restraint in his grip.
