Lina woke choking on air, her skin slick with sweat. The sheets were twisted around her ankles like seaweed. Her pulse throbbed in her ears, too fast, too loud. For a moment, she couldn't tell whether the wetness between her palms was sweat or blood.
Just a dream.
Or something worse—a memory she wasn't supposed to remember.
Her breath caught. She reached for the glass of water beside the bed, nearly knocking it over with shaking fingers. The taste in her mouth was metallic. Iron. Like biting the inside of her cheek.
The dream was already slipping. She grasped at the edges—blurry movement, dark water, a flash of white teeth turned cruel. Then: red. Everywhere.
She staggered to her feet, heart still hammering, and opened the door.
The corridor was empty, the stone floor cool beneath her bare feet.
But there it was.
Another page.
I did not type this time. Handwritten. And not the neat, practised penmanship of a published author either—this was jagged, rushed, the kind of scrawl done with shaking hands. The ink was smudged in places as if someone had written through tears. Or with wet fingers.
She held it under the hallway light, her breath shallow as her eyes scanned the lines:
> I remember the way his mouth twisted when he lied.
How small it made me feel.
I wanted to drown that smirk in the sea.
Her chest tightened.
It was her handwriting.
She knew it with the same certainty she knew her own face in the mirror. That looping R. The slant of the T. Even the pressure on the downstrokes—just the way her hand used to tremble when she was upset.
But she hadn't written this. Not recently. Not in this house.
She pressed the page to her chest and stared into the dark hallway.
"Milo?" she called, almost a whisper. She didn't know why she said his name. Maybe just to tether herself to something.
No answer. Only the soft creak of the old inn settled into itself.
She made her way down to the kitchen, still barefoot, the page clutched tight.
Milo was already there, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee. He didn't look surprised to see her. Just raised an eyebrow.
"You look like hell," he said.
"Thanks," she muttered, dropping the page on the table. "Another one."
He set his mug down and crossed the room without a word. When he read the note, his jaw worked slightly.
"Handwritten this time," he said.
"It's mine," she said. "The handwriting."
"You sure?"
She nodded slowly. "I'd know it anywhere."
He watched her, eyes scanning her face like she might reveal something involuntarily. "Could you have written it… and forgotten?"
"No," she said quickly—too quickly. "Maybe. I don't know."
"You said the other page was from a draft," he said. "What if this one is too?"
"It's not."
"What makes you so sure?"
She hesitated, then pointed to the word smirk. "I never used that word in the manuscript. I hated it. Too smug, too... self-aware. This—" she tapped the page "—this is personal. It's not fiction."
Milo was quiet for a beat. Then: "You said you don't remember that night."
"I don't."
"Maybe this is your brain trying to fill in the blanks."
"That's not how it works," she snapped, then softened. "Sorry. I just… I've lived with this void for a year. I know what's me and what isn't."
"Unless part of you doesn't want to know."
She looked at him sharply.
"I'm not saying you killed him," Milo added. "But you came here to hide. From the press, the whispers, your own head. You sure these pages aren't things you wrote and buried?"
"I'd remember." Her voice cracked on the last word.
He poured her coffee. Set it down gently.
"Then someone's trying to make you think you did," he said. "Which is worse."
She stared at the page again, rereading the last line. I wanted to drown that smirk in the sea.
"I hated that expression on his face," she whispered. "Like he knew he'd already won, even when we were fighting. Like he was watching himself be cruel, admiring it."
"You ever tell anyone that?"
"No."
"You sure?"
She looked up, eyes wide. "Why?"
"If someone's leaving these, they know things they shouldn't."
A chill wrapped around her spine.
"What if I wrote more?" she said quietly. "Somewhere in the house. What if these are just pieces?"
"Then we find the rest," Milo said. "Before whoever's leaving them does."
She nodded, then stood. But the movement made her sway.
"Whoa," Milo said, steadying her by the elbow. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just dizzy."
"You didn't sleep."
She shook her head. "There was a dream. It felt like drowning."
He didn't ask for details. Just helped her back into the chair.
They sat in silence for a long time.
Lina stared out the small kitchen window. The sea was a dark slash in the distance, unmoved by her fear.
"Milo?" she said at last.
"Yeah?"
"If I did write that line—I wanted to drown that smirk in the sea—and I meant it... what does that make me?"
He sipped his coffee. Then, slowly, without judgment: "Human."
She closed her eyes.
She wasn't sure if that made her feel better or worse.