At the harbor overlook, he stopped and stared out at the lighthouse, white tower stark against the afternoon sky. Something about the view hit him with this powerful longing, like he should be somewhere else, with someone else, sharing this moment.
The feeling was specific, not just general loneliness. He was missing a particular person he couldn't name but somehow missed desperately. Not just wanting company, but wanting someone who would take his fears seriously without writing them off as psychological bullshit.
Finn found himself imagining conversations with someone who would listen to his concerns about lost time without immediately deciding it was grief-related. Someone who would look at the evidence in his workshop with the same careful attention they'd give any other mystery.
The fantasy felt so real he could almost hear another voice asking intelligent questions, almost feel someone standing next to him offering the kind of support that made scary truths bearable.
But when he turned around, the overlook was empty except for seagulls and waves hitting rocks. The loneliness that followed felt way out of proportion to just being alone, like he'd been abandoned by someone important instead of just reminded that he was by himself.
That night, Finn sat in his apartment above the shop, surrounded by all the books and vintage furniture he'd carefully picked out over the years. Stuff that usually made him feelcomfortable and at home. But tonight, the familiar rooms felt wrong somehow, like they'd been designed for two people instead of one.
The reading chair by the window looked lonely without a companion. The kitchen table seemed way too big for just him. Hell, even his bed felt too wide, too empty, like his body remembered sharing the space with someone else.
While looking for a pen in his desk drawer, he found a small leather journal he didn't remember buying. The pages looked well-used, filled with his handwriting describing stuff that felt totally foreign even though he'd obviously written it.
Weirdest dreams last night. Not the usual anxiety bullshit about forgetting things or losing time, but peaceful ones. I was underwater but could breathe just fine, following someone with green eyes who showed me things I've never seen before. Tide pools full of crazy sea life, underwater forests swaying like meadows.
The dreams feel more real than being awake sometimes. In them, I know stuff about ocean ecosystems I've never studied. I can identify marine animals by how they behave, understand relationships between species I've never heard of. Knowledge that comes from nowhere.
When I wake up, I miss him. Miss someone I've never met, from dreams I can barely remember. The feeling sticks to me all day—real enough to taste but impossible to hold onto.
Finn read entry after entry describing dreams and feelings that were completely foreign but somehow familiar at the same time. The journal was like a record of some relationship with a person who lived in his subconscious but was totally absent from his actual memory.
But the emotions in those words felt absolutely real. The love described hit him right in the chest like something fundamental and true. Even without being able to remember what had caused those feelings, his body recognized them.
He closed the journal with shaking hands, overwhelmed by more evidence of a version of himself existing outside his conscious awareness. The entries described deep connection with someone he'd never met, detailed knowledge he'd never learned, feelings too specific to write off as fantasy.
Outside his window, the lighthouse kept its eternal rhythm—thirty seconds of light, thirty seconds of darkness. Finn fell asleep in his chair with the journal in his lap, his last thought wondering if the green-eyed guy from his dreams might be real, might be out there somewhere looking for him just as desperately as he was looking for answers he couldn't name.
When morning came, he'd wake up with no memory of reading the journal, no conscious knowledge of why his chest felt hollow from missing something important. But somewhere in the spaces between memory and dreams, the truth would stay.
Love existed whether or not he could remember where it came from. And somewhere among the research stations and tide pools around Beacon Point, someone was following the same inexplicable pull toward answers that made no rational sense.
Chapter 3
Crossing Currents
River
Three days of shitty sleep and zero concentration finally broke River's resolve. The letter kept burning a hole in his desk drawer, impossible to ignore and getting more painful by the hour. Every logical argument he'd made for staying away from the bookshop crumbled against one simple truth: he needed to see that guy again.
River parked across from “Between the Lines” at exactly 2 PM—the same time he'd spotted Finn three days ago. His hands gripped the steering wheel while he stared at the narrow Victorian building, trying to find the courage he'd misplaced somewhere between his dad's funeral and becoming a hermit.
The letter sat in his jacket pocket, folded carefully in a waterproof sleeve. Returning it was the smart thing to do. The responsible thing. The thing that would close this weird chapter and let him get back to his predictable routine of research and solitude.
But as River crossed the street, smart felt completely inadequate for whatever the hell he was walking into.
The brass bell above the door chimed like wind chimes when he pushed inside, and suddenly he was surrounded by the smell of old books and lemon oil. Afternoon light streamed through tall windows, making dust motes dance between towering shelves. The place was bigger inside than it looked from the street, stretching back into shadows filled with maritime histories and ancient maps.
Everything screamed careful attention and expert knowledge. Books weren't just alphabetical—they were organized by historical period and subject. The lighting was perfect for preservation. Even the temperature felt controlled.
“Can I help you find something?”
The voice came from behind a shelf of exploration narratives, and River turned to see the auburn-haired guy emerging with arms full of leather-bound books. Up close, the impact hit even harder than through the window. Warm brown eyes with gold flecks. Freckles scattered across his nose like constellations. Ink stains on his fingers that said he still believed in actual handwriting.
But it was the way he moved that really got to River. Gentle, like each book was something alive that deserved respect. Careful attention, like River's words actually mattered. None of the impatience or fake politeness River had learned to expect from most people.
“Actually, yeah.” River pulled out the letter, its weight feeling both heavier and lighter than it should. “I found this a few days ago, and I think it might be yours. Or at least from your shop.”
