The inn smelled of damp wood and salt, as though the sea itself had seeped into its walls. Miles returned to the dining hall that evening, the fog pressing hard against the windows like a living presence. The lamps glowed weakly, their flames trembling as if afraid of being snuffed out.
A few locals nursed drinks at the bar, their voices hushed, their eyes shifting whenever he glanced their way. It wasn't just suspicion—it was dread. The kind that kept conversations short and eyes down.
The innkeeper moved behind the counter with quiet, deliberate steps. His hollow cheeks caught the dim light, and when he finally looked at Miles, it was with the wary sharpness of someone who measured every word before speaking.
"You'll be leaving soon," the man said flatly, polishing a glass that was already spotless.
Miles leaned on the counter, his voice steady. "I'll leave when I find what I came for."
The innkeeper's lips twitched—half a smile, half a grimace. "Then you'll be staying longer than you should."
Silence pressed in. The air thickened, filled only by the soft clink of glass and the faint groan of wood in the storm outside.
Miles studied him. "People are missing. Families torn apart. You know something about it."
For a moment, the innkeeper's mask cracked. His hands stilled, his shoulders tightened, but his eyes didn't rise. Instead, he leaned closer, his voice low enough to drown beneath the hum of the lamps.
"There are things in Seabrook best left unspoken," he whispered. "Ask the wrong questions, and the sea will answer for you. It always does."
Miles's jaw tightened. "That's not good enough."
The innkeeper finally met his gaze. For the first time, Miles saw it—not hostility, not suspicion, but fear. Deep and consuming, the kind that had lived in man's eyes for years.
"Go back to your room, Detective," the innkeeper said, forcing his voice into calmness. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone. Not after midnight."
The warning was delivered like a final confession, heavy and reluctant. Before Miles could press him further, the man turned sharply away, vanishing into the kitchen.
At the bar, the locals had gone silent, their drinks untouched. One of them muttered something under his breath—a phrase Miles had heard once already, but now it sounded heavier, darker, almost like a curse.
"The sea always takes what it is owed."
Miles returned to his room, the brass key cold in his hand. He locked the door, the echo of the innkeeper's words circling his mind like the tide.
Not after midnight.
Outside, the fog thickened, wrapping the inn in silence. Somewhere in the distance, beneath the restless roar of the waves, another sound rose—a low, hollow groan, like something vast and unseen stirring in the deep.