WITH A TIRED sigh, I slid the glass door leading to the patio gently shut, the smooth click of the lock snapping into place beneath my fingers. The distant crash of the waves that were once so loud now faded into muffled whispers. I lingered for a moment, palm pressed against the cool glass, my mind heavy with the weight of the past few hours. I’d done all that I could for him and now… it was just the waiting game.

  The house was eerily quiet, the only sound disturbing the stillness was the faint rush of water running from the bathroom. Earlier, Ana had opted to take a shower, eager to rid herself of the day’s grime and the smear of blood left behind on her shirt cuff.

  “I’ll hear if anything happens,” she’d said before disappearing down the hall.

  I tugged the pale olive curtain across the door, shutting off the view to the outside world. Turning away, I made my way over to the stranger on the couch.

  He lay sprawled across the couch; his blanketed body still slack in unconsciousness. The only movement came from the slow rise and fall of his chest. One arm hung over the edge, long fingers grazing the wooden floor. He looked almost peaceful like this, his sharp, strong features softened whilst asleep.

  I crouched beside the couch, watching him carefully. The paleness that had clung to his complexion earlier was fading, replaced with warmth that was slowly seeping back into his skin.

  I grasped the cotton blanket draped over him and carefully lifted it, just enough to check if the wound had bled through the gauze. No fresh stains. I let the blanket fall back into place before reaching for his wrist, my fingers pressing lightly against his skin where the steady thrum of his pulse greeted my touch.

  Those were good signs.

  I started to set his hand on his chest when my eyes caught sight of something I hadn’t noticed before—something dark curled around his wrist, disappearing beneath the edge of his sleeve.

  Ink.

  Curious, I pushed the sleeve up, revealing a swirling pattern that crept up his forearm. Frowning, I leaned in closer. Tallies. Seemingly grouped in fives. My fingers hovered over the dark strokes. Each one of them had been etched into his skin with a precise, methodical hand. I traced them with my eyes, silently counting.

  Five, ten, fifteen, twenty—twenty-three.

  “Twenty-three what?” I murmured sceptically.

  “Eden?”

  I stiffened at Ana’s voice. I hastily dropped his wrist as if burned. I shot upright, scrambling to look casual just as Ana stepped into the living room.

  Her golden hair was wrapped in a cream towel, loose strands clinging to her damp neck. She was wearing a loose T-shirt with some rock band that she liked and some checkered pyjama pants. Her eyes were sharp as they locked onto mine.

  I forced myself to stretch, rolling my shoulders like I hadn’t just been creepily hovering over an unconscious stranger. “You done with the shower?” My voice came out stiff, and I winced internally at how unnatural it sounded.

  Ana’s gaze flickered from me to the man on the couch. Her expression didn’t change, but I knew her well enough to catch the way her brow twitched and how her eyes narrowed at me.

  “You were checking on him.” Not a question. A statement.

  I crossed my arms over my chest defensively, shifting my weight onto one foot. “I was just making sure he didn’t have a fever.”

  “How long does it take to check someone's fever?” she asked, slight amusement creeping into her tone. “You were touching him for a while.”

  I scoffed, a little too forcefully. “I was not.” Ana hummed, unconvinced. I huffed. “You’re imagining things.”

  “Am I?”

  Her smirk made my fingers itch to throw a pillow at her, but I restrained myself.

  I scowled, heat creeping up my neck. “I—No. I just—" I exhaled sharply. "I noticed his tattoos, okay? He has tallies, a lot of them."

  Ana’s teasing expression sobered slightly. “Tallies?”

  I nodded, gesturing to the man behind me. “Twenty-three of them to be precise. Come have a look.”

  She moved closer, her eyes raking over him until it fell on his arm. “You think they mean something?” she asked, her head tilting to the side in wonder.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek, unsure. “I’m going to assume they do. I don’t think it’s just for fun.”

  “Well, that’s not ominous at all,” she deduced sarcastically. “When do you think he’ll wake up?”

  “Not for a while. He lost some blood, but not enough to knock him out until morning. That is unless you decide to knock him out again.”

  She rolled her eyes at that. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that last bit,” she said pointedly. “We’ll add that to the list of questions we have for him when he awakes, hm?”

  I nodded, stifling a yawn with my hand. I was exhausted. It had been a long day.

  Ana must have been feeling it too because she let out a sigh and said, “Anyways, I’m heading to bed.” She cast a glance out the corner of her eye. “You should get some rest as well.”

  "I will."

  She lingered, her gaze flicking to the unconscious man before settling back on me, her expression cautious. "Lock your door too… just in case. We don’t know what he’s capable of. I should be able to hear him if he stirs, but it’ll give me some peace of mind.” I didn’t argue with her. He looked harmless now, but that didn’t mean much. With one last glance at him, she turned toward the hallway. “Goodnight, Eden.”

  “Night, Ana.”

  I only watched him for a moment longer, before rubbing at my tired eyes and then finally turning away. When I reached the bedroom, I locked it behind me.

  The room felt unchanged, yet everything about it was different now. Small, but cosy and bathed in soft blue tones that made it feel calm. Ophelia and I used to share this space when we were younger, talking to each other late into the night when we were meant to be sleeping.

  I stood by the dresser, eyes caught on the familiar photos arranged across the surface with care. One photo caught my eye immediately. A photo of the two of us as teenagers pulling silly faces at the camera. I was fourteen, maybe fifteen, and Ophelia eighteen. Her arm had been in a cast from a skateboard accident, awkwardly shoved into the corner of the frame. I let out a quiet breath, a sad smile tugging at my lips before my eyes drifted to another photo.

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  Grandma.

  The ache that followed was immediate. The picture was taken years ago, one of my favourites. She stood poised, her face lined with deep wrinkles but not from age alone —those lines were from a lifetime of smiles and laughter. Her thick, mostly grey hair curled softly at the ends, framing her full, kind face. I let my fingers touch over the glass, brushing lightly against the glass, as if touching the past could somehow make it more real.

  I swallowed hard, my vision blurring, and I quickly turned away from the captured memories, not trusting myself to look at it any longer.

  With a heavy heart, I flicked off the light and blindly made my way to the bed. The mattress dipped as I crawled beneath the blankets, burying myself in the familiar weight of them. The pillows still carried the faintest trace of florals—Ophelia’s perfume.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the sting behind them to retreat, but it was of no use. The tears came anyway, silent and steady as I curled my exhausted body deeper into the soft quilts.

  For the first time in weeks, sleep took me swiftly.

  I awoke to the sound of urgent knocking. A firm but measured, continuous rap against the wood of my door, followed by Ana’s frantic voice.

  “What is it?” I called out, my voice thick with sleep.

  “He’s gone!”

  I blinked, groggy, not sure if I had heard her right. “What?”

  “I said he’s gone,” she repeated, frustrated. “He slipped out, and I didn’t hear a damn thing.”

  That woke me up. I pushed back the blankets, sitting up as the weight of her words sank to the pit of my stomach. My eyes flicked to the window, where the frilly curtain covered the window. Pale moonlight filtered through the thin fabric, spilling soft silver patterns across the floor. It was still early. I had no idea what time it was, but the world outside was caught somewhere between night and morning.

  I pushed to my feet, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I reached the door and unlocked it. I cracked it open and found Ana standing there, her expression tight. She looked annoyed. It took me a second to realise her ire wasn’t directed at me, but at herself.

  “He couldn’t have gotten far,” I tried to reason with her. “Not with his wound.”

  “You’d think so, but I checked up the road and down. He’s vanished.”

  That didn’t sit right with me. He had still been unconscious when we’d gone to bed, pale and stitched up, his body weak from blood loss. When he woke up, he would have been disoriented, in pain, and he should have made some kind of noise moving around. Ana should have heard him. She always heard everything.

  I watched Ana’s face, finding the same unease reflected there. “I’m not getting back to sleep after this,” Ana muttered, rolling her shoulders like she could shrug off her irritation. “I might as well unpack the rest of the trailer.” She shot me a pointed look. “You, on the other hand, you should get some more rest.”

  “I can help,” I offered, half-heartedly.

  “You need the sleep more than I need the help.” I opened my mouth to argue, but she cut me off with a small, reassuring smirk. “I’ll try not to be too loud, okay?”

  “Okay,” I relented easily.

  Then, she was gone from in front of me, vanishing into thin air.

  I sighed before retreating to the warmth of my bed and sinking against the pillows. Unfortunately, sleep wouldn’t come. I pulled the blanket over my head, and later added the pillow, too. But it didn’t help. My mind was too alert now, replaying the fact that the man had managed to slip away without Ana hearing him. That shouldn’t have been possible.

  After a few more restless minutes, I gave up and got out of bed, rummaging through the boxes of my belongings in the living room. I pulled out a white turtleneck—good for covering my neck—and a pair of high-waisted jean shorts.

  I took a quick, hot shower, careful not to get my hair too wet by tilting my head back as the water ran over my shoulders. Once I was clean, I towelled off and pulled on my outfit.

  The mirror was fogged over from the steam so I ran a hand across the glass, clearing enough of it off to see my reflection. As I brushed my teeth, my hazel-green eyes stared back at me, still heavy with lost sleep. My round face was slightly flushed from the heat of the shower, my fair skin damp in places where stray droplets of water stubbornly clung to. After spitting out the last of the toothpaste, I grabbed my brush and worked it through my tangled, mousey brown hair. It was thick, wavy in places, and always a little unruly. I smoothed my fingers over the frizzy strands in an attempt to tame them and decided that my appearance would suffice.

  My eyes fell from the mirror and landed on the envelope resting on the countertop. The one I’d pulled from my dress pocket last night, right before tossing the clothing into the hamper and stepping into the shower.

  I let out a slow breath.

  Still not ready.

  Picking it up, I carried it to my new room and placed it on the vanity without a second glance. Later, perhaps.

  The aroma of coffee cut through my thoughts, pulling me toward the kitchen, where Ana was already waiting. Two ceramic mugs sat on the counter in front of her, steam curling from their rims.

  She sent me a sympathetic look. “Couldn’t get back to sleep?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” I replied glumly.

  “I wasn’t too loud, was I?”

  I shook my head and perched myself on the stool across from her. “No, you weren’t.”

  “Well, I managed to move all the boxes out at least,” she said before taking a slow sip of her coffee.

  “Thanks for doing that, by the way.”

  Ana shrugged like it was nothing, pushing the other cup of coffee toward me with her free hand. “It was no biggie. Figured I’d put my energy to use.”

  My gaze drifted down to the dark liquid sitting inside the mug, staring back at me like some kind of challenge. Black coffee. I hated it. Detested it, really. But beggars couldn’t be choosers and maybe, just maybe, my taste buds had evolved since the last time I’d tried it.

  I hesitated, only for a second, before I tentatively lifted the warm mug to my lips. The second it hit my tongue; I regretted it. Nope. Still gross. The taste lingered on my tongue like punishment, and I swiftly set the mug down, my gag reflex barely held in check. Some things just didn’t change.

  “Sorry, there was no milk.”

  I tried to hide my grimace. “That’s okay. It’s the thought that counts anyways.”

  Ana huffed a quiet laugh at my expression. “Right.” She took a sip of her own coffee, the bitterness not fazing her at all. “We’ll add milk to the list of things to get today, hm?”

  I leaned my arms on the counter, running through the rest of our errands in my head. Priority number one, blood bags. Second, my job. Third, food. We were low on the essentials. Not that Ana needed any, but I definitely did. Fourth, we had to return the moving trailer to one of its establishments before we were charged extra for keeping it too long. And after that… well, we’d figure it out as we went.

  Ana drained the last of her drink before pulling on a sweater and long pants. Meanwhile, I emptied my own cup into the sink, rinsed both of them quickly, and set them upside down on the drying rack. We moved around the house, gathering up the last of our things we needed before heading out.

  Just as I reached the front door, Ana suddenly stopped in her tracks, her gaze fixated on the couch.

  “What is it?” I asked, pausing with my hand on the doorknob.

  She bent down, plucking a scrap of paper off the couch. Her brows furrowed as she read over it.

  “He left a note.”

  She made her way over to me and passed it. I skimmed over the rushed, slanted writing.

  Saltgrove isn’t the best place to be right now. -A

  I stared at the words. How cryptic. A. That was all we had. No name. No thank you. No explanation. Just a warning from a guy who washed up on shore, got patched up in our house, and then vanished without a trace.

  I folded the note in half and tucked it into my back pocket, trying to ignore the unease settling in my gut. I couldn’t shake the feeling that in some way, shape or form, this was connected to Ophelia somehow. But the man was gone now, and without him, there was no way to get the answers I needed.

  “Come on,” I said, forcing my voice to sound steadier than I felt. “Let’s just get going.”

  Ana gave me a long, searching look, but she eventually nodded. We locked up behind us and made our way to the car. The morning air was crisp, the sky beginning to blush with the first hints of sunrise. As soon as I slumped into the passenger seat, I turned to Ana, my lips pulling into a practiced pout.

  I fluttered my eyelids at her. “Iced coffee?” I asked hopefully, needing caffeine in my system that didn’t taste like straight asphalt.

  Ana snorted, her gloved fingers turning the key in the ignition. “We’ll add that to the list too.”

  Satisfied, I settled in, watching as the sleepy town blurred past the tinted window.