Chapter Four: An Ocean Between Us
The sea was calmer than usual.
Its surface, usually restless with wind, lay like glass beneath the overcast sky, as though waiting. Watching. Amira stood at the edge of the lighthouse balcony with her arms wrapped around herself, her fingers cold despite the thick shawl.
Inside, Elias moved like a shadow—silent, deliberate, always distant. He hadn't spoken much since she mentioned Solène. Something about the name had stirred something in him. Guilt, perhaps. Or grief.
"You've been quiet," she said, not turning around.
Elias's voice came from the doorway behind her. "Some silences are necessary."
She looked over her shoulder. "And some are cowardice."
That made him pause.
"I didn't ask for any of this," he said finally. "Not the lighthouse. Not the voices. Not this connection."
Amira turned to face him. "Neither did I. But here we are."
He stepped forward, eyes stormy. "I know how this ends, Amira."
"Then tell me."
But he didn't.
Instead, he looked out at the sea, his face unreadable. "The ocean doesn't take without leaving something behind. That's what Solène taught me."
Amira's voice softened. "Who was she to you?"
Elias met her gaze then, and for a moment, the silence cracked.
"She was everything. And then... nothing. One moment she was here, breathing, laughing, daring the wind to carry her. And the next, she was gone. The crossing took her. I couldn't stop it."
Amira's heart twisted. "And you think I'm next."
He didn't answer.
But he didn't need to.
Later, she wandered the lighthouse alone, trailing her fingers along the curved walls. She found herself drawn to a door beneath the staircase—one she hadn't noticed before. It creaked open slowly, revealing a narrow chamber, more like a hollow carved into the stone.
Inside: candles, melted down to stubs. Small carvings. Feathers. A pendant made of twisted silver wire. And on the wall, etched deeply into the stone in shaky lettering:
"Those who hear must carry. Those who carry must choose."
She ran her hand across the words.
The air in the room changed—cooler, heavier.
And then, like a breath in her ear:
"Not all who love can stay."
Amira closed her eyes. Her throat ached.
Was this what Elias feared? That loving her meant losing her?
That evening, they sat in silence by the fire. The storm hadn't come yet, but the wind had picked up, stirring the waves against the cliff with new hunger.
"Why stay here?" she asked him. "If it hurts so much to lose... why do you stay?"
Elias didn't answer right away. He stared into the flames as though trying to see something in their shape.
"Because someone has to listen," he said finally. "If we stop listening, the voices vanish. The crossing grows colder. And the lost—those who are halfway between here and there—they're forgotten."
"And if you left?"
"The balance breaks."
Amira leaned back. "You think you're holding back death?"
"No," he said. "I think I'm holding back forgetting."
Outside, the sea rose. The wind screamed.
And between them, the space stretched wider than the ocean.
An ocean made of silence, memory—and the ache of something neither of them dared to name.