Mornings at La Sirena were quiet in the way old churches were quiet—dust motes drifting like incense smoke, silence pressing in from all sides. It wasn't peaceful. It was reverent. Heavy. The kind of quiet that made you hear yourself too clearly.
Lina sat on the edge of the bed, her bare feet on the cold tiles, the newest page trembling in her fingers. It smelled faintly of smoke. A fresh sheet. I typed again.
> "She wanted to hurt him. Not kill him. Just shake the smugness out of his spine. But then he slipped. His skull made a sound like thunder on stone. And she froze."
The blood drained from her face.
Her hands curled around the paper as though she could crush the words out of existence. Then she let it drop. It fluttered to the floor like a leaf, landing face up. Taunting.
She hadn't written that. Not that she remembered. But the voice was hers. Or some version of her—raw, unfiltered, dangerous.
Someone was playing a very specific kind of game.
She dressed without thinking, her body moving faster than her mind. A sweater, jeans, and boots she hadn't laced properly. She moved like a woman late to a reckoning.
Downstairs, the kitchen was dim and empty. The air smelled faintly of espresso and fish. A bowl of fresh figs sat on the counter, one already torn open, bleeding purple onto the wood.
She walked through the back, out into the courtyard.
Milo was crouched near the wall, feeding a half-feral cat pieces of something pink and flaking. Sardines, maybe. The cat hissed at her presence, then returned to its meal.
He didn't look up. "Sleep well?"
Lina folded her arms. "Do you leave pages at my door for fun, or are you trying to see how long it takes me to snap in half?"
Now he glanced at her. Calm, unreadable. "You think it's me?"
"I don't know what to think anymore," she said, the exhaustion sharp in her voice. "That's the problem. My head is a house full of broken mirrors."
Milo stood slowly, wiping his hands on a stained rag. "If I wanted to mess with you," he said evenly, "I'd pick something easier than literary breadcrumb trails."
"Like what?"
"Cold shoulders. Bad plumbing. Double bookings."
A huff escaped her—half a laugh, half disbelief. "That's funny to you?"
He met her eyes. "It's not funny. But it's not me."
Lina stepped closer. "You knew who I was when I got here. You recognized me."
"I knew about you," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"You Googled me."
"Briefly."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Wouldn't you Google someone with a famous face who shows up in the off-season, pays in cash and doesn't want anyone to know where she is?"
She flinched, though she tried not to. "So what did you find?"
Milo tilted his head. "Articles. Obituaries. Speculation. The book is covered with dark titles. People arguing about whether you were the monster or the victim."
Lina's voice wavered. "And what did you decide?"
He was quiet for a moment. The wind moved through the rosemary bushes, whispering secrets neither of them wanted to hear.
"I decided none of that matters," he said finally. "Because whoever you were then—she's not the person standing in front of me now."
She blinked fast. The sun caught the dampness in her lashes.
"You're a stranger," she said.
"So are you," he replied. "Even to yourself."
She looked away, toward the cliffs. "Someone wants me to remember."
"Maybe you're leaving the pages for yourself," he said softly.
Lina turned sharply. "Don't do that. Don't give me metaphors. I don't need poetry. I need facts."
His gaze didn't waver. "Maybe the facts are the problem."
She moved past him, pacing the length of the courtyard, her boots scuffing the cracked tiles. "Every night I dream about water. And teeth. And—god—his voice. And I wake up with my hands clenched so tight my nails break the skin. That's not healing, Milo. That's something else."
"I've seen you," he said. "Shaking so hard you can't hold a glass. But you still pretend you're fine."
She turned. Her voice cracked. "That's not guilt?"
His reply was quiet. "That's grief."
"You don't know the difference."
"No," he said, stepping closer. "But you do."
The silence stretched again. The cat leapt onto the low wall and disappeared into the brush, disinterested in the aftermath of human unravelling.
Lina pressed a hand to her chest as if trying to hold herself in place. "You think I did it."
"No," he said simply. "I think someone wants you to believe you did."
That landed like a weight. She sat on the edge of the planter, staring at her knees. "Why? Why would anyone do that?"
Milo leaned against the wall beside her, his voice measured. "Because someone else knows what happened. Maybe they were there. Maybe they want to protect themselves. Or maybe it's just easier for them if you carry the guilt."
She looked at him. "You sound like you've lived through something similar."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.
She touched the scar that ran from his ear to his jaw—gently, like a question. "What happened to you?"
Milo didn't move away, but his eyes darkened. "Wrong place. Wrong time. Right person."
"You loved them?"
"I did."
"And they hurt you?"
"Not directly." He looked away. "But they left me to burn."
Lina drew a breath, the kind you take when you know you're too close to something important.
"Do you think I should leave?" she asked quietly.
Milo shook his head. "No. I think if you leave now, you'll never stop running. And whatever this is—these pages, these memories—it'll follow you."
She closed her eyes. The wind pulled her hair across her cheek.
"I'm scared of what I'll find."
"You're already living it," he said. "Might as well name it."
Lina opened her eyes. "Will you help me?"
His answer was immediate.
"Yes."