The letter continued, filled with intimate observations about his storm nightmares, his habit of eating cereal for dinner when research consumed his attention, the guilt that made him push into dangerous conditions. The writer—signed only as “Finn”—knew details River had never shared with anyone.
I'm writing this during one of the clear moments, when I can remember everything we've shared.By tomorrow, it might be gone again, but tonight the love feels so real I could drown in it. Be careful out there, River. The ocean took your father, but it doesn't get to have you too.
Always yours, Finn
River read the letter three times, searching for clues that would reveal the hoax. The paper felt genuinely aged, the ink slightly faded like fountain pen work exposed to salt air. The handwriting showed emotional variations that suggested authenticity rather than forgery.
But the content was impossible. Nobody knew about his conversations with marine samples or his father's watch. He'd never mentioned storm nightmares to anyone, not even Jake. The details were too intimate, too specific.
River folded the letter carefully and secured it in his gear bag, hands moving automatically while his mind raced. The name “Finn” meant nothing to him. He'd never met anyone by that name, never had a relationship that could produce such intimate knowledge.
The rational part of his brain insisted there had to be an explanation. People didn't just know things about strangers. Love letters didn't appear in bottles with impossible timing and accurate predictions.
But as River climbed back to his truck, the letter's words echoed with disturbing persistence. It felt less like someone observing his behavior and more like someone who had lived inside his head.
The Beacon Point Marine Research Station was functional concrete and steel that prioritized durability over aesthetics. River's lab was controlled environment where he could process samples without distraction, but today the familiar space felt claustrophobic.
He arranged his morning's collection—water samples, photographs, data—but his attention kept drifting to the letter in his desk drawer. Every time he tried to focus on pH readings or kelp growth, his mind returned to those impossible words.
“You look like hell, Hayes.”
Jake was leaning in the doorway with his coffee and that stupid grin that meant he was about to give River shit about something. His ranger uniform was already trashed from whatever he'd been doing since dawn—mud, salt spray, the usual evidence of actually working for a living.
“Gee, thanks. Really what I needed to hear today.” River didn't look up from his microscope, even though he'd been staring at the same slide for twenty minutes without actually seeing it.
“I'm just saying, you look like you've been wrestling with existential dread again.” Jake wandered into the lab like he owned the place, which, honestly, he kind of did at this point. “What's eating you?”
River almost told him about the letter. Almost pulled the damn thing out of his desk and said,Here, read this and tell me I'm not losing my mind.But it felt too weird, too personal. Like showing someone your diary.
“Just working through some data,” he said instead.
“Bullshit.” Jake dropped into the chair next to River's desk. “You've been staring at that slide like it holds the secrets of the universe. Either you've discovered alien life, or something's seriously messing with your head.”
“I'm thinking.”
“You're brooding. There's a difference.” Jake settled into the chair beside River's workstation. “Talk to me. What's eating at you?”
River sighed and pulled the letter out. “Someone left me this. During my dive this morning. And before you say anything, yeah, I know how crazy it sounds.”
Jake read it with the same focus he brought to incident reports, but his expression kept getting more and more concerned. “Jesus, River. This is...” He looked up. “This is really fucking specific. Like, stalker-level specific. You're sure you don't know anyone named Finn?”
“Never heard of him in my life.”
“And this stuff about your dad's watch? Your research?” Jake was reading it again, frowning. “This isn't stuff someone could just figure out by following you around. This is intimate.”
“Tell me something I don't know.” River took the letter back, folding it carefully. “That's why I can't figure out what the hell is going on.”
“Okay, so maybe it's someone from way back? College? Someone your dad knew?” Jake was in problem-solving mode now, which River appreciated even if it wasn't going to help.
“I'd remember someone who knew me this well. And the handwriting doesn't ring any bells.”
Jake stood up and walked over to the window, looking out at the harbor with that alert expression he got when things didn't add up. “You want my honest opinion? Take this to the cops. Someone's been watching you way too closely, and that's not romantic, it's creepy as hell.”
“Right. And tell them what? 'Officer, someone wrote me a love letter that knows too much about my life'? They'll think I'm paranoid.”
“They'll think you're being smart.” Jake turned around, looking serious. “River, I've seen what happens when people get obsessed. This isn't normal.”
River wanted to argue, but Jake was right about the obsessive quality. The letter demonstrated knowledge requiring either extensive surveillance or impossible intimacy. Both options were disturbing.
