The town woke beneath a veil of fog.
Luna stood at the attic window, watching the mist coil around rooftops like smoke from an extinguished fire. Her sketchbook lay open on the floor beside her, the strange name still inked onto the page—Elias Vorne . She didn't remember falling asleep after writing it. But now, with the morning light pressing through the glass, it felt less like something she had imagined and more like a truth that had always been waiting to surface.
She pulled on her coat and stepped outside.
The streets were quiet, damp with dew, and lined with shuttered windows that seemed to watch her pass. She walked quickly, her boots clicking against cobblestone, heading toward the harbor where she'd last seen the man from her painting.
And where she hoped to find Elias.
She found him near the old lighthouse, standing by a stack of yellowing maps spread across a wooden crate. He was speaking with an elderly fisherman whose face was weathered like driftwood, his voice low and urgent.
"…not supposed to come back," the fisherman muttered. "Not yet."
Elias glanced up as Luna approached. His eyes—dark, sharp, and filled with something unreadable—met hers without surprise.
"You're the painter," he said simply.
Luna hesitated. "You know who I am?"
"I've heard things." He folded one of the maps and tucked it into his satchel. "People talk when paintings start remembering what they forget."
Her pulse quickened. "Then you know what's happening to me."
Elias studied her for a long moment before nodding. "Come with me."
He led her down a narrow path behind the lighthouse, past rusted fishing nets and skeletal remains of old boats. They reached a small, overgrown garden enclosed by stone walls, wildflowers blooming defiantly between cracks.
"This used to be the town's archive," Elias said, brushing a hand over the crumbling wall. "Before the fire."
"There was a fire?" Luna asked.
"A long time ago. Official records say it destroyed everything—documents, photographs, even personal journals. But some things survived. Things people didn't want found."
Luna looked around, sensing the weight of history pressing down on them.
"You think my paintings are connected to whatever was lost here," she said.
"I know they are," Elias replied. "Because I've seen them before."
She stared at him. "What do you mean?"
He reached into his bag and pulled out a worn leather notebook. Flipping through brittle pages, he stopped at a sketch—faded but unmistakable.
A dock.
A man holding a bundle.
A woman reaching out.
Except this drawing wasn't hers.
It was older. Much older.
"Who made this?" she whispered.
"A woman named Isolde Marrow," Elias said. "Your great-grandmother."
Luna's breath caught.
"She was an artist too," he continued. "And like you, she could paint memories that weren't hers. Only… she never figured out how to stop."
"What happened to her?"
Elias closed the notebook gently. "She disappeared. One day, she just… wasn't there anymore. No body, no note. Just gone. Like she faded away."
Luna swallowed hard. "Like I'm starting to."
Elias nodded. "Exactly like you're starting to."
A cold wind swept through the garden, rustling leaves and stirring dust. Luna wrapped her arms around herself, trying to steady the storm inside her mind.
"If I keep painting," she said slowly, "I'll lose more of myself."
"Yes."
"But if I stop…"
Elias looked at her then, really looked at her, and something in his expression softened. "Then the town will forget again. And maybe forever this time."
Luna exhaled sharply. "So either way, someone loses."
He stepped closer. "That's why you have to choose carefully. Not just what you paint—but why you paint it."
She turned her gaze toward the sea, where the fog was beginning to lift. Somewhere beyond those waves, the past waited—silent, patient, and hungry to be remembered.
Back home, Marina was waiting at the door.
She didn't ask where Luna had gone.
Instead, she handed her a key.
"It's time," she said quietly.
Luna looked down at the object in her palm—a rusted iron key, its bow shaped like a crescent moon.
"For what?"
Marina met her eyes. "For the room your mother locked before she left."