I scan the shoreline, searching for any sign of her, my pulse ticking up a notch. She should be heading back by now. She should already be inside.
A crack of thunder rumbles in the distance, a warning.
I pick up my pace.
When I reach the shore, the beach is empty, per usual, save for a scattering of rocks and driftwood. The waves roll in gently, leaving behind a glistening film of seafoam before retreating again, their rhythmic pull almost hypnotic. The wind carries the briny scent of the ocean, mixing with the damp earthiness of the storm rolling in.
I crouch down, my fingers brushing over the cool, damp sand as I reach for a particularly unique seashell—a small spiral with a pearlescent sheen that catches the fading light. It’s delicate, yet weathered, worn down by time and tide. I turn it over between my fingers, considering it for only a second before slipping it into my pocket.
Kruz will want this one.
She started collecting them on our second day here, sifting through the sand with the same kind of intense focus she gives to the books she devours. At first, I thought it was just something to pass the time, a distraction, but now every windowsill in the house is lined with her findings—tiny fragments of the sea she refuses to leave behind. She says she likes the imperfections, the way each shell is worn down by the water, reshaped into something new. I wonder if she sees herself in them.
I run my thumb over the ridges, already picturing where she’ll place this one, maybe on the nightstand next to the others she keeps close.
The air shifts, and before I even turn, I feel her presence. A familiar pull, something in the way the wind changes as if it carries her with it.
I glance up, and there she is, making her way down the beach, her hair wild in the wind, her steps slow but sure.
She’s bundled up in one of my shirts again, the oversized fabric billowing in the wind as she squints against it. The sleeves hang past her fingertips, swallowing her hands, and the sight makes something in the pit of my stomach tighten. It’s ridiculous, maybe even selfish, but seeing her like this makes me glad I didn’t bring many of her clothes with us. My shirt looks better on her anyway.
Her eyes move carefully over the beach, scanning every inch of sand as she bends to pick up anything that catches her attention. A smooth piece of sea glass. A shell with a perfect spiral. A pebble worn down by years of relentless waves. She collects them all with the same delicate precision, inspecting each one like it holds a secret only she can decipher.
I don’t say anything at first. I just watch her, letting the roar of the incoming storm fill the silence between us. The wind howls through the trees, the ocean churns, but she moves unbothered, like she’s in her own world, separate from the chaos around her.
She’s beautiful like this.
There’s a kind of serenity in the way she crouches down, her brow furrowed, lips slightly parted in concentration. She doesn’t seem to mind the storm or the wind nearly as much as I thought she would. Maybe she even likes it. Maybe, for once, she’s not thinking about everything she’s lost, everything she’s running from.
And yet, there’s something about her—something about the way she moves, the way she carefully selects what she wants to keep and what she lets go—that makes her seem untouchable. Like the world around her doesn’t matter, even when I know she feels like it’s falling apart.
Feels like I’ve ripped it apart.
“It’s going to storm soon,” I say, my voice barely audible above the howling wind.
She looks up from her task, her gaze meeting mine with a blank expression. A single strand of hair whips across her face, but she doesn’t bother to push it away. “No shit, Sherlock,” she mutters, glancing up at the darkening clouds above as if I’ve just stated the most obvious thing in the world.
I shake my head, exhaling a quiet laugh, and move to the water’s edge. The ocean stretches endlessly before me, its surface shifting, restless. The wind has picked up even more now, sending waves crashing against the shore with an intensity that wasn’t there earlier.
It’s coming hard and fast.
That’s what she said.
I huff out another laugh, this one just for me, but it doesn’t do much to ease the unease that’s settled over me.
There’s something about storms on the island that makes everything feel more vulnerable, like the isolation becomes heavier, suffocating. Most of the time, I don’t mind it. I’ve always been good at being alone. But with her here, everything feels different. It sharpens the edges of my concern, makes me hyperaware of every little thing that could go wrong.
I turn back to her as she watches me, nestling another shell into the side pocket of her bag. The wind whips around us, tugging at her clothes, her hair, but she doesn’t look afraid. If anything, she looks… at ease.
It makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t mind being stuck here with me as much as I thought she did.
She seems calmer about this than even I am. Maybe she doesn’t understand how potentially bad it might be. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care.
But then again, maybe she’s just used to pushing through whatever storms life throws at her.
The thought sticks in my mind, heavy and unshakable. She’s weathered worse things than this, hasn’t she? I think for a second about the fact that she probably considers me one of those storms—something to endure, to survive.
I don’t like that thought at all.
