The next morning came slow, like a bruise surfacing beneath the skin. The waves outside La Sirena slammed against the cliffs with a vengeance, echoing in Lina's chest. She stared at the ceiling, one hand resting across her stomach, the other gripping a single sheet of paper.
Typed. Again.
"He said he didn't fear death. But he feared being forgotten. So she carved his memory into her bones like scripture. Even if she couldn't remember why."
She dressed without thinking, wrapped herself in a sweater that still smelled of mildew and sea salt, and followed the sound of clattering metal to the kitchen.
Milo was there, frying eggs in the smallest cast iron pan she'd ever seen. He looked up once and said nothing.
Lina dropped the page on the table between them like it was a threat. "Another one."
"Breakfast first," he said.
"You're calm for someone who might be living with a murderer."
He plated the eggs. "Says more about me than you, doesn't it?"
She sat down, jaw tight. "What if I did it?"
Milo poured two coffees. "Then I'll eat my eggs fast."
She laughed—surprised by it—and pushed the plate aside. "You're not scared of me."
"You'd be surprised how many dangerous people look just like you."
"And you'd be surprised how many of them don't know what they've done."
They ate in near silence, save for the hum of the wind and the distant crash of surf.
Afterwards, they walked the coastal path that cut behind the inn, winding through olive groves. Lina spoke first.
"I remembered something last night."
Milo glanced sideways. "Yeah?"
"We were fighting. He'd thrown my manuscript into the fire. Said it was all fiction—that I never wrote anything real."
"What did you do?"
"I hit him. Just once. He hit back."
They stopped beneath a gnarled fig tree. She pressed her hand to the bark, breathing shallow.
"There was blood. His nose. I remember screaming at him. I said I wished he'd disappear. That I'd write him out of existence."
Milo leaned against the tree, his arms crossed. "Do you remember the water?"
Lina nodded. "A storm came in. I ran out. He followed. The boat was already drifting. We were both drunk. Angry. I think… I think I pushed him."
"Pushed him how?"
"Out of the boat. I think he hit his head on the hull. But I don't know if it was me or the waves or just… fate."
Milo was quiet. The wind ruffled his hair, softening him.
"You could turn me in," she said, staring at the sea.
"I could," he replied. "But then I'd have to believe you did it. And I'm not sure I do."
"Why?"
He looked at her, and for a moment, his expression cracked open like a sky before a storm. "Because whatever happened that night, you've been drowning ever since."
Lina stepped closer, their shadows merging. "And you? You're just watching from the shore?"
"I've been under before," he said. "I know the signs."
They stood there, caught between memory and silence.
And then, slowly, carefully, she reached for his hand.
Neither of them pulled away.