The sea had always spoken in whispers, but today it was shouting.
Luna stood at the edge of the shore, her boots sinking into the damp sand as waves crashed against the rocks. The wind tugged at her dark curls, carrying with it the scent of salt and something older—something like memory.
She tightened her grip on the canvas tucked under her arm and turned toward home, the town rising behind her like a half-forgotten dream.
Marina's house sat on the bluff overlooking the water, its weathered gray boards softened by years of fog and sun. It was the same house where Luna had grown up, though it felt different now—like returning to a childhood bedroom after years away and realizing how small everything had become.
She stepped inside, the door creaking as if surprised to see her again.
"You're late," Marina said from the kitchen table, sipping tea from a chipped porcelain cup. Her silver hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and her eyes held that knowing look they always did—the kind that saw more than she let on.
"I walked," Luna replied, setting the canvas down carefully beside the stairs. "I needed the air."
Marina studied her for a moment before nodding. "You'll paint soon?"
"Maybe."
It wasn't that Luna didn't want to paint—it was that nothing felt right anymore. Since coming back to the town, her inspiration had been slipping through her fingers like sand. The colors in her mind were muted, the images fleeting. She had tried sketching, but the lines never settled into anything real. The only thing that remained vivid was the ocean—always the ocean.
That night, she dreamed of a woman standing in the tide, painting the sky onto the water. When she woke, the image clung to her like mist.
She set up her easel in the attic, where dust motes danced in the slanted light. The canvas stared back at her, blank and expectant. She mixed the first color—deep blue—and brought the brush to the surface.
And then it happened.
Her hand moved without hesitation, guided by something not quite her own. The strokes came fast, urgent, layering one upon another until the scene emerged: a moonlit dock, a rowboat rocking gently in the water, and a man standing at its edge, holding something wrapped in cloth.
She didn't know who he was. She didn't know why he looked so familiar.
But when she finished, her chest ached.
She stepped back, breath unsteady, and reached for her phone to snap a photo—only to realize she couldn't remember the last time she'd taken one. Hadn't she just used it yesterday? Hadn't she taken pictures of the shore?
She searched her memories like flipping through an album missing half its pages.
A chill ran through her.
Later, while making tea, she mentioned the painting to Marina.
"That dock," she said, trying to sound casual. "Was there ever a boat house out there?"
Marina stiffened slightly, then shook her head. "Not in my time. Why?"
Luna hesitated. "Just... I painted it. Out of nowhere."
Marina didn't ask to see the painting. Instead, she placed a hand on Luna's shoulder and said softly,
"Be careful what you bring back, child. Not all memories want to be remembered."