Moonhaven was the kind of town tourists loved,
not because it was perfect,
but because it pretended to be.
Evening lights lined the pier like floating lanterns, reflecting on the quiet waves. The last fishing boats returned, engines sighing after a long day at sea. Wind carried the scent of salt and grilled shrimp from the food stalls.
It looked peaceful.
Harry Ashford didn't trust peaceful.
He leaned on the railing, eyes following the lighthouse at the pier's end. Tall, weather-worn, and a little too serious for a town this cheerful. The white paint peeled like old memories trying to fade.
Harry was seventeen. Slim, average height, dark hair that never listened. His face was calm, thinking, always noticing too much. People said he had "quiet eyes" — a poetic way to say "he saw more than he should".
Especially the night his parents never came home.
A rustle from his jacket broke the silence. A black cat climbed out with fluid confidence, settling beside him on the railing.
Milo.
Smooth fur like spilled ink.
Eyes sharp enough to slice a secret open.
Unlike other cats, Milo talked.
Only to Harry.
"Someone's staring," Milo murmured.
Harry didn't look away from the sea. "Who?"
"Your trauma," Milo replied flatly.
Harry exhaled a small laugh through his nose. Milo wasn't cute - he was honest. Brutally.
Harry closed his sketchbook - tonight's unfinished drawing of the lighthouse staring back at him like it knew something.
"You know," Milo said, "normal people draw sunsets, not giant towers with abandonment issues."
"It interests me," Harry replied.
"I'm concerned for your hobbies."
His phone buzzed.
Unknown Number
Harry rarely got messages. Especially not ones that changed the air around him.
"Come to the pier,
I know what happened to your parents"
The world didn't stop —
but Harry did.
Milo saw the message — because yes, he could read.
"Nope," Milo muttered. "Suspicious text. Bad vibes. We go home."
But Harry was already moving.
"Harry—!" Milo hissed, scrambling to his shoulder. "Minimum decision time should be more than one second! Like… three seconds!"
Harry didn't react.
Couldn't.
Someone knew something.
As he approached the end of the pier, the atmosphere thickened. Police tape. Flashing lights. Officers marking a scene the town wasn't used to.
Moonhaven didn't do crime.
Not this kind.
People whispered behind their hands:
"—Professor Hale…"
"…worked at the university…"
"…studied wrecks… old myths…"
Harry recognized the name. Hale had once tried speaking to him — something about his parents' expedition. Harry avoided the conversation.
Regret stung.
"Let's go home," Milo whispered, low. "We're not meant to be here."
Harry didn't respond.
His mind was sharp — analyzing.
The body was twenty feet away. Police distracted. Lanterns flickered in the wind.
Then — Harry's gaze latched onto something that didn't belong.
A worn leather satchel resting near the benches.
Damp from sea spray.
Scuffed from travel.
Not tagged or collected.
Like it had been placed there… deliberately.
Milo's fur bristled.
"That thing screams trouble."
"It has my name on it," Harry said quietly.
Milo stared. "That makes it worse."
Harry ducked beneath the tape when no one looked. Every step was calculated — silent. He reached the satchel and knelt beside it.
The tag read:
To: Harry Ashford
Fear and curiosity twisted together inside him.
He opened the flap.
Inside:
☆ A compass
— rusted, symbols engraved deeply into its frame
— cracked glass trembling
☆ A folded note
— the paper rough from water
☆ A small journal
— soaked, unreadable for now
Harry lifted the compass.
It clung to his palm like it chose him.
The needle spun violently.
Not north.
Not anywhere found on maps.
Milo's voice was barely a breath.
"Harry. That's not a normal object."
Harry set the compass against his leg and opened the note.
"Evernight is real.
Protect the compass.
They are already close."
Evernight.
His parents whispered that word once —
He wasn't supposed to hear.
He wasn't supposed to remember.
A chill crawled across his skin.
The compass needle suddenly stopped.
And pointed — sharply — toward the lighthouse.
An officer's shout blasted the air:
"Kid! Step away from that — now!"
Harry flinched — snapping the bag shut and hugging it to his chest.
"I— I just found it," he stammered.
"Hands off police property," the officer said sharply, grabbing his arm. "You shouldn't even be here. What's your name?"
Milo hissed softly, ready to claw someone's face off.
"Har— Harry Ashford."
The officer froze.
Recognition.
Sympathy.
Then something colder.
"You're the boy from the Ashford case…"
Harry tried to speak but his throat closed.
The detective at the scene — tall, trench coat blowing in the wind — turned sharply when he heard the name. His eyes narrowed with interest.
"Oh no," Milo whispered, "He knows too much."
"Were you invited here, son?" the detective asked.
"…Someone texted me," Harry admitted.
"Who?"
"I… don't know."
A flicker of suspicion crossed the man's face.
Harry hated that look.
He'd seen it too often.
The detective signalled the officer to relax.
"Go home, Harry," he said with a quiet authority. "Moonhaven is safe, but tonight… isn't."
Harry nodded — stiff and numb — and backed away.
Milo forced a whisper into his ear:
"We need distance. Now."
Harry walked all the way home holding the satchel like a lifeline.
Every shadow felt heavier.
Every streetlight flickered differently.
Moonhaven didn't look fake anymore.
It looked like a mask.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Milo leapt down, pacing, tail twitching.
"You stole evidence," Milo hissed.
"I didn't steal anything," Harry argued softly.
"My name was on it."
"That's EXACTLY how cursed objects start their conquests."
Harry placed the satchel on his desk.
The compass inside pulsed — just once — a faint throb like a heartbeat.
Harry froze.
Milo's pupils thinned.
"That wasn't normal," the cat said sharply.
"Nothing about any of this is normal," Harry answered, voice shaking.
He sat on the bed slowly, staring at the compass he couldn't unsee.
He finally whispered:
"Why would someone who died… leave this for me?"
Milo didn't have a snarky answer this time.
He climbed into Harry's lap and stayed quiet.
That scared Harry more than anything.
For the first time in five years…
He felt one thing stronger than grief:
Fear.
But buried under that…
Hope.
Harry lay back, still holding the compass.
And somewhere in the dark—
—something moved in the ocean.
Watching.
Waiting.
Moonhaven had been pretending for years.
Tonight, the pretending stopped.