I. Low Tide

Evan was working late that evening. 

A strange dark-haired woman holding a blue-colored book came to the café, rain clinging to her coat. She ordered coffee, glanced at Evan, then at the necklace when it slipped into view.
Evan handed her the cup and felt it again—that strange warmth beneath his shirt, the seashell pressing faintly against his chest.
The radio warned again.
Storm surge. Rising tides tomorrow.
“Storms like this,” she said lightly, “they don’t come from nowhere.”
He looked up and noticed a scar near her left eye. He hesitated. “Why do you say that?”
She smiled.
Why does it feel like we’ve met before, Evan thought.
“The sea is singing for those who can listen, but I unfortunately hear nothing. I only know,” she said, looking towards the window.
Her gaze flicked—briefly, deliberately—to his necklace.
“Your necklace is beautiful,” she said.
Evan was startled. “Oh—thanks.”
“Was it from someone special?” she asked.
“My mom,” he whispered softly.
Outside, the wind pulled harder at the shore.
The strange woman left.
And far away, beneath layers of water and years, something old shifted—recognizing a rhythm it had once lost. As Evan was getting ready to leave, he found the book. It was strangely comforting—blue, dusty, and it looked a bit like a grimoire.

II. High Tide

The next day,
the city thinned as Evan walked.
Streetlights grew farther apart, their reflections stretching and breaking across wet pavement. The wind had teeth tonight—sharp, insistent—but it didn’t feel hostile. Just familiar. Like it recognized him. The blue book rested under his arm. He hadn’t meant to take it. Not from the café, not anywhere.
Every time he thought about leaving it behind, something tightened in his chest—the same place where his necklace lay warm against his skin, the seashell smooth from years of touch.
The promenade was nearly empty. A few fishermen packing up early. A jogger turning back at the sound of the wind.
Evan stopped at the edge, where stone met water. His phone buzzed with messages and calls, but he didn’t notice.
The sea was lower than usual.
He crouched, setting his camera down beside him, and for a moment just watched. The waves didn’t crash—they breathed. Like something asleep. He thought back to what the dark-haired woman said.
“What’s the song you’ve been singing?” he murmured, unsure who he was speaking to.
The book slipped from under his arm and landed softly beside the camera. Blue, dusty, and unmarked.
He hesitated, then opened it.
The pages were blank.
No ink. No impressions. Just paper that felt… warm. Surely this was not a notebook.
Evan flipped through a few pages, frowning.
Who in their life owns an empty book? Hopefully she comes back to retrieve it, Evan thought.
The wind shifted. A subtle tug stirred in his chest, like the tide moving inside his ribs. The seashell against his skin burned warm, insistent. Evan froze. He sucked in a breath, fingers closing around the necklace through his shirt. He looked around quickly.
The sea answered by going quiet. Not still—quiet. The waves flattened. The horizon smoothed like a held breath. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Evan stood. He didn’t remember deciding to. Step after step, he moved closer to the edge. Stone slick beneath his shoes, damp with salt. The book slipped from his hands and fell open at his feet. This time, the page wasn’t blank. Not written—but marked.
A faint violet ring bled through the paper. Pulsing. Like light seen through closed eyes. His vision swam. He pressed the necklace to his chest. Warmth spread, sharper now, impossible to ignore.
And then he saw her.
His mother.
A memory woven into wind and light. Her brown hair catching lamplight like spun gold. She lifted a hand and beckoned him.
“Come… to me.”
Her soft voice floated across the water.
Evan’s stomach twisted. He knew it wasn’t real. He knew he shouldn’t move. But the pull was irresistible. Not just the violet glow of the book, not just the tide—but her. Evan stepped forward, smiling.
Even if you’d be a mere illusion, I still hold on to you.
He stepped forward, walking towards the sea. The cold water rose to his ankles, and the violet ring on the page flared.
He could hear a distant—but familiar—voice scream his name.