The sea was never quiet.
Even on the calmest days, it whispered—soft, insistent, like a story waiting to be told. And for as long as she could remember, seven-year-old Sela Marrow had listened.
She sat at the edge of the tide pool near the cliffs, her bare feet dangling above the water, a handful of seashells scattered around her like forgotten words. She wasn't playing like the other children who came to the shore with buckets and nets. No, Sela watched.
She saw things.
Not ghosts, not exactly.
But memories.
Faint ones, like ripples on the surface of glass.
Today, she saw a woman standing where she now sat, painting something unseen. The figure shimmered, half-real, half-dream. Sela blinked—and the woman was gone.
She frowned.
"Did you see her too?" she asked quietly.
Her father, Elias, crouched beside her, his hands resting lightly on his knees. He followed her gaze toward the water.
"No," he said gently. "But I know someone who used to."
Sela tilted her head. "Mama?"
He nodded. "Your mother could see what others forgot. And sometimes… she painted them back into the world."
Sela looked down at her own hands, small and still learning how to hold a pencil, let alone a brush.
"Do you think I can do that too?"
Elias smiled, but there was something careful in his expression. "Maybe. But gifts like that… they come when they're ready."
That night, Sela dreamed.
She stood in the gallery her mother had built, surrounded by paintings that moved—not just images, but moments . A child running through the rain. A man carving symbols into driftwood. A woman singing to the moon.
At the center of the room hung a painting Sela didn't recognize.
It showed a girl no older than herself, standing before a mirror filled not with reflection, but with stormlight .
And beneath it, a name:
Isolde
Sela woke with a start.
Moonlight spilled through her bedroom window, casting silver lines across the floorboards. On her desk, a blank sketchpad sat open. Beside it, a pencil rested—half-rolled from where it had fallen.
But now, there was something drawn inside.
A house.
Not hers.
An old one, nestled between the trees near the cliff's edge.
She recognized it.
The chapel ruins.
Only in her drawing, it wasn't ruined.
It was whole.
And glowing.
The next morning, Sela went to her mother.
"I saw something," she said simply.
Luna, already dressed in paint-smeared overalls, paused mid-brushstroke on her latest canvas. She turned slowly, studying her daughter's face.
"What did you see?"
"A house," Sela said. "But not like it is now. Like it was ."
Luna's breath caught slightly.
Elias exchanged a glance with her.
"You drew it," he said, more statement than question.
Sela nodded and held up the sketchpad.
Luna took it carefully, her fingers tracing the edges of the drawing.
Then, softly, she whispered, "You remembered."
Sela tilted her head. "Is that bad?"
"No." Luna knelt in front of her, cupping her face gently. "It means you're like me."
Sela's eyes widened. "I can paint memories too?"
Luna smiled. "Not just memories. You bring back what the town forgets."
Sela considered this.
"Will it hurt?" she asked.
Luna hesitated, then shook her head. "Sometimes. But we'll learn together. Just like your great-grandmother taught me. And her mother before her."
Elias crouched beside them. "And if it ever feels too much, you tell us. We'll help you hold it."
Sela nodded solemnly.
Then, after a pause, she asked, "Can I paint now?"
Luna laughed softly. "Yes. But only if you promise to leave some space for your own stories."
Sela grinned.
She reached for a clean canvas.
And began.