Morning arrived reluctantly in Seabrook. The fog never lifted; instead, it rolled through the narrow streets like a living thing, swallowing sound and dimming even the pale sunlight. Detective Miles Corbin stepped out of the inn, the brass key heavy in his pocket, and found the town waiting—silent, watchful, as though every shuttered window hid a pair of unseen eyes.
The air was thick with brine and decay. Fishing boats rocked uneasily in the harbor, their hulls groaning as if they carried more than nets and rope. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, sharp and sudden, then went silent—as though it too had remembered the rules of this place.
Miles's footsteps echoed too loudly against the cobblestones. Curtains twitched. Faces appeared for the briefest moments in narrow windows before vanishing again. A pair of fishermen, shoulders hunched and eyes averted, crossed the street to avoid him. Their voices dropped to hurried whispers, words carried away by the wind before he could catch them.
The hostility wasn't loud. It was quieter, colder—something unspoken but heavy in the air, a warning that didn't need words.
Outside the general store, an elderly woman swept the steps with sharp, jerking strokes. Her face was lined like weather-beaten driftwood, her pale eyes fixed on him with something between fear and contempt. She froze when he approached, her hands tightening around the broom until her knuckles blanched.
"You're not welcome here," she said, her voice flat, brittle.
"I'm not here to cause trouble," Miles answered, calm but steady. "I'm here for answers."
Her gaze sharpened. "Answers are dangerous things in Seabrook."
Before he could reply, she turned and slipped inside, the door slamming shut and locking fast behind her. The broom clattered forgotten on the steps.
The weight of the town pressed closer. Missing posters fluttered on the surrounding walls—layers upon layers, old ones peeling beneath fresh ink. Their faces stared back at him from the paper: mothers, fathers, children. Each pair of eyes seemed to follow him, silent and accusing, demanding to be remembered.
By midday, Miles drifted toward the docks. The sea stretched endless and gray, its waves rolling with a rhythm that sounded almost like breathing. Nets dripped along the pier, and the salty wind bit against his skin.
An old fisherman sat hunched on an overturned crate, mending his net with slow, deliberate hands. His hat shadowed his face, but his presence carried the weight of someone who had seen too much.
"You think you'll find them," the man rasped without looking up. "The missing."
Miles crouched slightly, instincts sharpening. "Why not?"
The fisherman lifted his head, eyes clouded but sharp with something that cut through the fog. His voice dropped low, almost swallowed by the wind.
"Because they're not lost," he said. "They've been taken."
The words landed heavy, cold, and final—like a stone dropped into deep water.
A gull shrieked above them, breaking the moment. When Miles looked again, the old man had already returned to his work, his jaw locked, refusing another word.
The wind shifted, carrying the taste of salt and something fouler, something hidden.
For the first time since his arrival, Miles realized the people of Seabrook weren't simply grieving.
They were afraid.