Chapter 3: The Cabin Watches
The driveway to the cabin was little more than ruts in packed sand. Laura eased the car through the narrow pines until the trees fell away and the sea revealed itself—gray and endless, glinting like something half-asleep and hungry.
The cabin sat just above the tide line, its back deck lifted on stilts. Shingles curled like petals at the edges. Windchimes made of sea glass clinked softly from the eaves, though she hadn’t felt a breeze since stepping out.
There was no key. The door creaked open when she tried it.
Inside, it was cooler than she expected. Clean, but not modern. Whitewashed walls. A stone fireplace. A quilt draped across a rocking chair in the corner. The place smelled faintly of brine and lavender.
A folded note sat on the small round table near the window.
Welcome, Laura— This place is quiet, but not silent. Let it soothe you. Let it hold you. Just be mindful: thoughts wander when we're alone, and some things hear what we think before we say it. Be true to your husband. Don't let your mind drift to old flames or darker dreams. Sleep light, and keep your feet clean.
—M.
Laura stared at it.
She read it again.
She almost laughed. Keep your feet clean? What kind of advice was that?
She looked around for a guest book, a rental pamphlet—something to explain who M was. Nothing. No wifi instructions, no branded binder. Just the note and a single glass of wine already poured and waiting on the kitchen counter.
It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t warm either. Someone had poured it recently.
“Okay,” she whispered. “That’s not creepy.”
Still, she drank it. Not all of it, but enough to cut the salt still clinging to the back of her throat. She unpacked slowly, unsure whether to feel at home or on alert. The place had the strange stillness of a home between occupants—not abandoned, not claimed.
Her bedroom faced the ocean. The sheets were fresh, the pillows fluffed. A single window above the headboard looked out on the long stretch of beach below. She stood there for a long while, watching the surf press in.
No footprints. No gulls. No boats.
Just the waves.
She peeled off her shirt and tossed it into the hamper by the door. She'd bring the rest of the bags in later. Right now, she needed a shower.
The water pressure was better than she expected. Hot enough to fog the mirror, and still cool at the edges. She stood under it longer than she meant to, letting it steam out the ache in her shoulders.
When she stepped out, something had changed.
She felt it before she saw it—that subtle displacement, like a room just breathed.
The wine glass was gone from the counter.
The note had been turned over.
But both sides were now blank.