Luna couldn't stop looking at the painting.
It sat in the corner of the attic, propped against an old trunk, its surface still damp in places. The dock stretched into a sea that wasn't quite real—too dark, too deep. The man stood motionless at the edge, his face obscured by shadow. And yet, she felt like she knew him.
She tried to shake the feeling, telling herself it was just her subconscious pulling from something she'd seen before—a photo, a dream, a story someone once told her. But none of those explanations fit. This was different. It felt different.
The next morning, Luna woke with a start. Her heart pounded, though she couldn't remember the dream that had woken her. Only fragments remained—a voice calling her name from the water, the sound of something breaking on stone.
She got up and went to the attic.
The painting was gone.
No, not gone—moved. She found it leaning against the wall downstairs, near the front window where the morning light spilled through lace curtains. Dust danced in the golden beams, and for a moment, she thought she saw movement in the paint itself—the faintest ripple across the black sea.
She blinked. The illusion vanished.
"You moved it," she said to Marina, who sat at the table with a bowl of fruit.
"I did," Marina replied simply. "You were restless last night. Talking in your sleep."
Luna frowned. "I don't remember saying anything."
Marina didn't look surprised. "That's how it starts."
"What starts?"
Marina only sipped her tea.
Frustrated, Luna turned back to the painting. She reached out and touched the canvas lightly, fingers grazing the cool surface. A shiver ran through her—not from cold, but from something deeper, like a memory brushing past her skin.
And then, as if drawn by invisible hands, her brush lifted from the table beside her.
She hadn't picked it up.
The brush hovered for a heartbeat, then dipped into the open jar of water, shaking off droplets like rain. Then it moved—slowly, deliberately—back to the canvas.
Luna didn't move.
The brush added something new to the scene: a figure standing behind the man at the dock. A woman, her face blurred, her hand reaching toward him. In the folds of the cloth he held, something glinted—metal? Glass?
Then the brush dropped.
Luna stumbled back, knocking over a stool.
"Did you see that?" she gasped.
Marina looked up slowly. "Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me this would happen?"
"I hoped it wouldn't."
Luna stared at her grandmother, chest rising and falling with panic. "What is happening to me?"
Marina finally stood, setting her teacup down with quiet finality. "You're remembering what others have forgotten."
"But I'm not—I've never been here. I don't know these people."
"No," Marina said gently. "But someone else does. And now, so do you."
Luna shook her head. "This isn't possible."
Marina stepped closer. "This town has always kept secrets. And you… you were born to uncover them."
A silence settled between them, heavy and salt-laced.
Later that day, Luna wandered into town. The streets were narrow and winding, lined with shuttered windows and whispering eaves. The locals passed her with polite nods, but she could feel their eyes linger longer than usual—as if they sensed something had changed.
At the small café near the harbor, she ordered coffee and sat by the window, trying to steady her thoughts.
Then she saw him.
The man from the painting.
He stood across the street, holding a wrapped bundle under one arm. His coat was weatherworn, his posture stiff, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a hat. He glanced toward the café—and for a fleeting second, his eyes met hers.
Recognition flashed between them like lightning.
Then he turned and disappeared around the corner.
Luna bolted from her seat, nearly knocking over her coffee.
"Wait!" she called, rushing outside.
But the street was empty.
Only the wind remained, carrying the scent of the sea—and something else.
Something like sorrow.