The days grew heavy over Saint-Malo, the sea's lament a constant thread through the fog-laden air.
Elias Moreau sat in their shared apartment, the candle's flame a trembling sentinel against the damp gloom, its wax pooling like tears on the broken table.
His lungs rasped, each breath a fragile plea, the blood on his kerchief a shadow he could no longer conceal.
Across the room, Celeste stood before her easel, her brush still, the canvas a blank expanse where colors once danced.
The scent of turpentine lingered, stale now, mingling with the musty breath of their crumbling walls.
She had stopped painting—
Her hands idle.
Her eyes vacant as the sea beyond the window.
The vibrant storms that once filled her canvases had faded, replaced by a silence that weighed on the room like a shroud.
Elias rose, the floorboards creaking under his frail steps, and approached her, the rough weave of her abandoned smock brushing his fingers.
"Celeste," he whispered, his voice a thread unraveling,
"where have your colors gone?"
She turned, her gaze a hollow tide, and murmured:
"They've drowned, Elias—pulled under by shadows I can't fight."
He took her hand, its warmth a fleeting balm against his chilled skin, and led her to the couch, the blanket's wool a rough embrace around them.
The sea's roar swelled outside, a mournful chorus, and he read from his notebook, his words a lifeline:
"In the silence, I seek your light,
a flame lost to the deep."
Her lips quivered, a tear tracing a path down her cheek, and she leaned into him, her breath a shuddering wave.
"The dark is winning," she said, her voice breaking, "and I'm afraid it'll take you too."
The hum rose then—soft, haunting—threading through the silence like a ghost's lament.
His eyes darted to the window, where the cliff loomed, its silhouette stark against the gray.
The figure stood there again, swaying in the mist, its presence a chill that tightened his chest.
Celeste stiffened, her hand clutching his, and whispered:
"She's there, calling me back."
The 1975 date from her sketches flashed in his mind, a scar on their fragile peace, and he wondered if her fading colors hid a truth she could not face.
He wrote again, the pen scratching:
"Her silence sings, a tide of loss I cannot stem."
The words were a bridge to her soul,
But the room grew colder,
The candle's light dimming as if mirroring her despair.
Through the window, the figure seemed to move—closer,
Its form indistinct,
A riddle in the fog.
Was it the girl from her past,
A ghost of 1975,
Or a reflection of the darkness consuming her?
The sea whispered,
Its voice a thread of secrets,
And Elias held her tighter,
The silence between them a fragile shield
Against the mystery that loomed beyond.