Chapter 6: The Man from the Ferry
The sea was restless the next morning. Genevieve noticed it first, standing barefoot at the cliff's edge, watching the tide churn with an energy she hadn't felt in weeks. The water was not violent, but it was unsettled—carrying the weight of something coming. Elias found her there, arms crossed, hair lifted by the wind. "Storm?" he asked. "No," she said. "Not from the sky. From the shore." She didn't explain. Instead, she turned and walked down the narrow goat path that led toward the edge of the village ruins. Elias followed in silence. He had learned not to question her instincts. They were rarely wrong. At the base of the hill, where the crumbling steps met the flattened stones of what had once been a village square, they saw it: footprints. Fresh. Still damp from sea spray and rain. Elias crouched beside them. The heel was deep, the sole worn. A man's boots. One set, heading inland. "You were right," he murmured. Genevieve said nothing. She was staring past the prints, toward the old bell tower that jutted like a broken tooth above the ruins. The sound of the waves echoed differently now, as if the cliffs themselves were listening. "Only the fishermen ever come this way," Elias offered. "And even then, rarely." "They don't wear leather boots," she replied. She turned, her expression unreadable. "Let's go back." But it was too late. By the time they reached the upper steps of the monastery, he was already waiting. A man, standing just inside the chapel's arched threshold. He was dressed in a long black coat, damp from the walk, and held a walking stick he didn't seem to need. His hair was silver at the temples, his skin pale and smooth in that unnatural way that came from wealth and shadowed rooms. He smiled when he saw her. "Genevieve." Her body stiffened as if struck. "Matthew." Elias felt it immediately—the shift. The way the air seemed to thicken around her. The way her hands clenched at her sides. The wind that had been blowing from the sea stilled, and the monastery grew quiet. Genevieve walked forward, slow and deliberate. "You shouldn't be here." "I came to see if you were still alive." "And now you know." Matthew tilted his head. "You've changed." She didn't respond. He looked past her, eyes falling on Elias. "And this must be the reason." Elias straightened, saying nothing. But Genevieve stepped slightly to the side, not in submission, but in protection. "Why are you here, Matthew?" The man's smile faltered. "Because you left without explanation. Without warning. One day you were mine—" "I was never yours." "You were my wife." She nodded once. "I was your possession." Matthew's voice turned cold. "You were my partner." "I was your property," she said softly. "Dressed up. Paraded. Hidden when necessary. Broken slowly, so slowly I didn't notice until I could no longer breathe." Silence. Matthew glanced around the monastery. "This place—this ruin—is what you chose over me?" "No," she said. "This place chose me. It opened its arms when the world slammed its doors." He looked at Elias again. "And him? What is he?" "Free," she said. "And kind. That's all that matters." Matthew's jaw twitched. "I came to offer you a way back." "I'm not going back." "You don't have to live like this, Genevieve. You were born for more than moss and firewood. Come back with me. You can have your name again. Your place. Your legacy." She stared at him a long moment. "My name is still mine. My place is here. And legacy? That word has done more damage to the world than fire ever could." She stepped closer to him now, her voice lowering. "I buried that woman on a night full of stars, in the ruins of a ballroom no one danced in anymore. And I built this life over her grave. You came too late." Matthew's face twisted—not with grief, but with disdain. He turned toward the door, the click of his boots echoing sharply. "You'll regret this." "No," she said. "I already did. But then I let it go." He left without another word, disappearing down the steps toward the sea. Only after the sound of his footsteps faded did Genevieve allow her hands to shake. Elias stepped beside her. "Are you all right?" "No," she whispered. "But I will be." That night, she returned to the library beneath the sea. Elias didn't follow. Instead, he remained in the garden, under the wind-tossed olive trees, staring up at a sky streaked with salt and stars. She had faced something old and heavy. And she had not broken. But he knew it would echo. Inside her. And maybe inside him, too. The violet hour had been tested. And it had held.