The afternoon draped Saint-Malo in a somber veil, the sea's lament a low drone threading through the fog.
Elias Moreau stood before Celeste's door, his lungs a fragile cage, each breath a battle against the weight of his illness. The blood on his kerchief had dried to a rust-colored stain, a silent witness to the letter's sting, but his heart ached for her hum—a melody that had lingered since their kiss.
The wood beneath his knuckles was splintered, rough against his trembling hand, and the air carried the faint scent of turpentine from within—her sanctuary, now a fortress.
He knocked, the sound a hollow echo, but no answer came.
Through the thin walls, a sob broke free—soft and jagged, like waves crashing on a hidden shore.
"Celeste," he called, his voice a thread unraveling in the silence, and pressed his ear to the door.
Her shadows moved beyond, a flicker of despair caught in the gap beneath, and he heard her whisper:
"The dark is winning."
His chest tightened—not from pain, but from a fear he could not name—and he slid to the floor, the cold planks grounding him as her grief seeped through.
He opened his notebook, the pages crinkling under his touch, and began to read—softly at first, then with a rhythm that rose above her sobs:
"In the hollow of my lungs, I carry your light, a flame the tide cannot claim."
The words were new, born of their night together, and he poured them through the door like a lifeline.
The crying faltered, replaced by a shuddering breath, and he continued—his voice a trembling hymn against her silence.
The sea's roar outside seemed to listen, its whispers curling around the building, as if urging him on.
Minutes passed—or hours.
Time blurred in the fog.
And then the door creaked open.
Celeste stood there, her eyes red-rimmed, her face a canvas of tears and paint streaks. The scent of her studio enveloped him—turpentine, damp canvas, the faint musk of her hair—and her hand reached for his, warm and unsteady.
"You pulled me back," she murmured, her voice a fragile thread,
"but the shadows—they're mine to bear."
He rose, the notebook falling to the floor, and drew her close—her heartbeat a drum against his chest, her breath a gift he feared to lose.
Yet as she clung to him, a sound rose—a hum, low and haunting, echoing the whisper he'd heard after his mother's departure.
Her gaze darted to the window, where the cliff loomed through the mist, and she stiffened.
"She's there," she whispered, her voice breaking,
"watching me fall again."
Elias followed her stare, the figure a silhouette against the gray, its sway a riddle in the fog.
Was it the girl from 1975, or a mirror to Celeste's pain?
The hum grew, a chorus in his ears, and he wondered if her shadows held a truth the sea refused to yield.
They sat, her head on his shoulder, the room silent but for their breaths.
He picked up the notebook, the pen scratching as he wrote:
"Her shadows sing, a song of loss I cannot learn."
The mystery deepened, a tide pulling at the edges of their love, and Elias held her tighter—unaware that the door's creak had masked another sound:
a footstep, fading into the mist outside.