That night, Alia couldn't sleep.
The second letter—tucked carefully into her journal—kept whispering to her. Its words had burrowed beneath her skin, and though the town had settled into its usual silence, something in her heart thrummed awake.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, a blanket draped over her shoulders and the old Remington typewriter staring at her from across the room like a relic with secrets. The keytops gleamed faintly in the moonlight. It almost felt... alive.
And that terrified her.
Because she hadn't touched it.
But each night, a letter appeared.
At 12:02 AM, the wind picked up. The dormer window rattled in its frame, and the room's temperature dipped as if the house had exhaled.
Then, a sound: clack.
Alia shot up. Her heart jolted.
Another clack.
She tiptoed toward the typewriter. Her breath trembled in the cold air. And there—like something from a dream—was another envelope, centered neatly on the desk.
No footsteps. No creaking floorboards. No sound but the sea and her thundering pulse.
She picked up the envelope with shaking hands.
> "You asked nothing of me, and still, I write to you.
That kind of silence deserves a voice."
— M.
She sat down. Right there, by the window, with the letter against her chest. It felt like a confession—intimate, direct, and unflinchingly vulnerable.
She didn't know who "M." was.
But she knew what it felt like to want to be heard.
---
The Next Morning
The tide had rolled in again, hiding the rocks beneath frothing waves. Alia wore her scarf high and her coat tighter as she made her way through the winding streets of Eastcliff. There was a chill in the wind, but her cheeks were warm—flushed with anticipation.
She hadn't seen the man again.
But she had a plan.
The café next to the bookshop, The Painted Teacup, was already buzzing with morning chatter. She stepped inside, the bell jingling above her, and ordered a black tea with honey.
"Miss Reed," Mrs. Thurber called from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. "You look like a girl who's fallen in love with a ghost."
Alia gave a crooked smile. "Is it that obvious?"
"Oh, honey," Agnes winked, "you have the kind of eyes that hold back too much. You let someone write to you like that long enough… something starts to break loose."
"Do you believe," Alia asked slowly, "that a person can know your heart before you ever meet?"
Agnes stopped wiping. Her gaze softened.
"Yes," she said quietly. "But the real question is—when they finally stand in front of you, will you still let them hold it?"
---
That Afternoon
Alia returned to the attic and pulled out her own sheet of paper. For the first time, she rolled it into the typewriter and placed her fingers on the keys. She hesitated.
Then typed:
> "To whoever you are…
I hear you. I don't know why you chose me, but I'm here.
And maybe I need your words more than I realized."
She signed it with her initials:
— A.
---
Midnight
Another letter. This time, different. Longer.
> "I didn't choose you.
I found you, the way a poem finds a page—suddenly, without warning.
I don't know what I'm doing, Alia Reed.
But I know that writing to you feels like breathing after a long time underwater."
— M.
Her hands trembled as she read the final line over and over. He knew her name now.
Which meant one thing:
He'd seen her.
---