Aliyah's POV
The message stabbed deeper than the rest. My thumb hovered over the screen, the edges of it slick in my grip. It had to be Cohen. Nobody else would write something like that — not unless they knew me, really knew me.
I deleted the message, watching the text vanish like that would erase it from my head. It didn't. The words kept circling back, sharp and deliberate, digging into every quiet moment.
When I stepped out of the tent the next morning, the air felt too bright, the waves too loud. Asher was crouched by the fire pit, coaxing the embers back to life. His hair fell into his face as he worked, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each movement.
"Slept well?" he asked without looking up.
"Fine," I said too quickly.
He glanced up, narrowing his eyes a little. "You sure?"
I brushed past him, muttering, "I said I'm fine," and reached for the kettle. My hands shook just enough to rattle the lid.
He didn't push, but I could feel him watching me as I poured water into the dented tin pot.
By midday, the tightness in my chest hadn't eased. Every sound — the snap of twigs underfoot, the distant whine of a dirt bike, even the flap of the tarp in the wind — had my stomach twisting. I caught myself scanning the road more than once, my shoulders jerking at shadows that weren't there.
Asher tried to talk to me about heading into town for supplies, but the words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. "Can't you just go by yourself?"
His eyebrows lifted. "Wow. Good morning to you, too."
"I just… I don't feel like it," I muttered, ducking into my tent. The zipper rasped shut behind me, sealing me in the dim space that still smelled faintly of smoke and salt.
I sat cross-legged on my sleeping bag, staring at the bag where my phone was buried. My fingers itched to check it, just in case another message had come through. I didn't.
The sound of an engine rolling up the sandy track broke through my thoughts. At first, I thought it might be Asher coming back early — but the pitch was wrong, softer, steadier.
A shadow shifted outside.
"Hello?" A man's voice, deep and casual.
I unzipped the tent enough to peer out. A guy in a faded postal jacket stood near the fire pit, holding a small cardboard box under one arm. His skin was weathered from years in the sun, his beard neat but graying.
"Dale," he introduced himself with a nod. "Post for you."
"For me?" My voice wavered.
He squinted at the label. "Yeah. Just says Aliyah. No return address. Picked it up from the station this morning — figured I'd save you the trip."
I stepped out, brushing sand from my jeans. The breeze carried the faint scent of his aftershave mixed with salt air. "Thanks."
Dale handed me the box, then glanced toward the horizon. "Storm rolling in tonight. Watch yourself."
I nodded, forcing a polite smile until he climbed back into his truck and drove off, tires crunching over gravel.
The box was light — too light. The cardboard felt soft in places, like it had been handled more than once.
Asher's voice came from behind me. "What's that?"
I turned slightly so he couldn't see my face. "Nothing. Just… something from an old sponsor."
"Mind if I—"
"It's nothing," I cut in, my tone sharper than I meant.
His brows knit, but he didn't press. He went back to tightening the straps on his bike, though I could feel the question still hanging in the air between us.
I carried the box into my tent and closed the flap. The tape peeled away with a reluctant rip.
Inside, folded into a neat square, was a torn piece of fabric. Red and white. I didn't have to touch it to know it was from one of my old racing jerseys. My name was still faintly visible across the edge, though the letters were smudged with motor oil.
The sight made my throat close. My fingers hovered over it, careful not to smear the stain.
Someone had kept this. Someone had wanted me to know they had it.
I shoved it back into the box, taped it shut again, and pushed it deep under my bag. My pulse wouldn't slow, no matter how deep I buried it.
The rest of the day crawled. Asher tried to get me to help him check the chain on his bike, but my hands felt clumsy, my head somewhere else. I kept seeing that scrap of fabric every time I blinked.
When the sun went down, the clouds Dale had warned about rolled in, heavy and low. The air smelled like rain, and the wind rattled the tarp above us.
We ate by the fire in silence, the flames throwing quick flashes of light across Asher's jaw. I caught him watching me once or twice, his gaze steady and unreadable. I didn't meet it for long.
Later, I crawled into my tent and lay in the dark, listening to the soft patter of drizzle against the canvas. The sound was almost enough to make me forget the weight in my chest. Almost.
Then came the crunch.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, in the sand just beyond the thin wall of my tent.
I froze, every muscle tightening. My ears strained against the rush of blood in my head.
The steps stopped.
I held my breath, waiting for them to start again, but they didn't.
Carefully, I reached for the zipper and pulled it down an inch. The cold, damp air brushed my face as I peered out.
The camp was empty. The fire had burned down to embers, casting only a dull orange glow.
But just beyond the light, near the edge of the dunes, was a single boot print in the wet sand.
Fresh.
The rain hadn't touched it yet.