The sky was the color of bruised violets as Aila Monroe stepped off the train, the scent of saltwater and rust tugging at memories she thought she'd buried a decade ago. Wind curled around her like an old friend with a warning, tousling her dark hair as she stared at the sign that read *Harbor's End – Welcome Home.*
Home. The word tasted strange now.
The small coastal town hadn't changed much—fishing boats still swayed in the harbor like restless ghosts, and the sea still whispered secrets no one dared repeat. But something felt different. Off. As though the town itself was holding its breath.
She tightened her grip on the leather satchel slung over her shoulder, inside which lay the key to the house she swore she'd never return to, and a folded letter marked with her mother's familiar handwriting. *"If anything happens to me, come home. Trust no one."*
Aila hadn't believed it would come to that. Not really. But now her mother was dead—an accidental fall, the police said. Quick. Painless.
Except her mother had never been careless. And she never, ever climbed that staircase in the dark.
Aila walked down the cracked sidewalk toward the edge of town, where her childhood home sat on the cliffs like a watchful sentinel. As she passed the bakery, the scent of cinnamon buns curled around her, pulling a memory of her mother's laughter from deep within. The sound of heels clicking behind her made her pause and turn.
Nobody.
She shook it off. Just nerves.
The iron gate creaked as she pushed it open. The old house loomed ahead, three stories of timeworn wood and broken shutters. A gust of wind slammed the front door open before she touched it, as if welcoming her—or warning her.
Inside, the air was stale with dust and secrets. She walked through the silent hallway, touching the banister where her mother used to rest her hand. A floorboard creaked behind her.
She froze.
"Who's there?" she called, her voice more confident than she felt.
No answer.
She exhaled slowly and reached into her satchel. She didn't take out the letter. Not yet. Instead, she reached for the key to the study.
The door stuck at first, then gave way with a groan. Dust hung in the air like cobwebs. The desk was just as her mother had left it. Neat. Purposeful. Except for one thing.
A single photograph, face down.
Aila picked it up. Her heart stopped.
It was a picture of her mother—with a man Aila had never seen before. They stood arm-in-arm in front of the lighthouse, smiling as if they shared a dangerous secret. And scrawled in her mother's handwriting on the back were five chilling words:
**"He said he'd kill me."**
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