ONCE UPON THE PACIFIC U
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ONCE UPON THE PACIFIC
Chapter Seventeen : Her Voice in the Fog
The oars drifted now. He hadn't rowed in minutes—maybe hours. Time was strange here.
The sea was no longer sea.
The water beneath the Eliora shimmered like mercury, bending the moonlight into unfamiliar symbols. Waves didn't crest; they pulsed like breath. Each dip and rise of the boat felt like the heartbeat of something alive. Something watching.
Milo stood near the prow, the map rolled and tucked into his jacket. He barely remembered moving. His thoughts unraveled like old rope, knotted with memories, visions, and dreams he couldn't separate.
Then—the fog returned.
Thicker than ever.
It spilled over the deck like smoke from some ancient altar. Shapes moved within it. Some tall and human. Some not. Whispers curled around him, language not quite language. Echoes of things once said, or never said at all.
He held his breath.
"You should not have come alone."
A woman's voice. Again. The same from before. Closer now.
Milo turned slowly. There—through the grayness—she stood on the water. Barefoot. Cloaked in seaweed and silence. Her face was veiled, but the shape of her was achingly familiar.
"Eliora?" he whispered.
No answer.
Only the wind. And a hush that fell like a dropped veil.
"You're not her…" Milo said. "You're what's left of her. Aren't you?"
The woman didn't speak. But she moved. Slowly. A single step on the waves—toward him.
And in that instant, everything split.
The fog peeled back in a circle around them. The stars above changed—no longer constellations, but ancient runes. The ocean below turned into a mirror. And in it, Milo saw—
—Himself.
As a boy. Then a teen. Then standing by a hospital bed.
Eliora.
Laughing. Dancing. Dying.
Each flicker in the water showed a memory he tried to bury. Grief he refused to face.
"You weren't supposed to leave," Milo said, voice breaking.
The woman didn't reply. But Eliora's voice did—echoing from somewhere deep.
"You brought my memory where it was never meant to go… Now, it must find rest."
And then—
A cry.
Piercing.
Low and ancient.
Like a whale, but not.
The sky rippled, and the stars fell. One by one. Like raindrops reversing time.
And suddenly, Milo was not on the boat.
He stood in the middle of a tidepool—alone. Fog like walls. Water knee-deep. He turned and turned and found no boat, no voice, no direction.
But then—
A stone path emerged beneath the surface. One by one, glowing faintly. Leading toward a single torch, barely visible.
Echo Island.
He was here.
But not fully.
Not yet.
He looked back. The sea had vanished. He could not return the way he came.
Ahead, the torch flickered again. And with it—one final whisper in Eliora's voice:
"Some truths find you only when you're ready to let go of the questions."
Milo nodded.
And took his first step onto Echo Island.
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