The bus hissed like it was irritated to stop, brakes screaming—sssshhk—before settling into silence. I stayed seated a second longer than necessary, fingers clenched around the strap of my bag, watching the fog smear itself against the windshield like a warning. The town's name flashed briefly on the cracked sign outside, then disappeared behind drifting white.
So this was it. I was back.
"End of the line, love," Mrs. Doyle said, her voice tinny and tired. "You getting off or planning to haunt my bus?"
I managed a thin smile. "Getting off."
My boots hit the pavement with a dull thud. The air smelled of salt and wet asphalt, sharp enough to sting my lungs. The bus doors folded shut behind me—ka-chunk—and then it pulled away, engine groaning, leaving me alone with the sound of gulls crying somewhere overhead.
The street looked smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I was just older. The bakery on the corner was still there, lights glowing warm through fogged windows. Laughter spilled out when the door opened—ding—and for a second I thought about going inside, pretending I belonged. Instead, I adjusted the strap of my bag and walked.
Each step felt like trespassing.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. One message. Unknown number.
You made it.
I stopped walking.
The fog pressed closer, muting the town until even my breathing sounded too loud. I stared at the screen, pulse hammering in my ears—thump, thump, thump.
I typed back before I could think better of it.
How do you know?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
This town notices when ghosts come home.
"Fuck," I muttered, shoving the phone away.
I told myself it was coincidence. Small towns thrived on coincidence. Still, my shoulders stayed tight as I walked toward the row of old houses lining the harbor road. Waves slapped against the rocks below—crash, pull back, crash—steady and relentless, like they were counting down.
I was almost to my rental when I heard footsteps behind me.
Not hurried. Not cautious. Just there.
I turned.
He stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of a dark coat, posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate. The fog curled around him, softening the edges of his face but not his eyes. Those were sharp. Observant. Too aware.
"Caoimhe," he said.
The sound of my name on a stranger's tongue sent a chill straight down my spine.
"I don't know you," I replied.
"That's not true."
My fingers tightened around my bag strap. "Then enlighten me."
A corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile. "Serafin."
The name rang a faint bell I couldn't place. That scared me more than if I'd remembered.
"Do you make a habit of greeting people by name in the street?" I asked.
"Only the ones who leave without saying goodbye."
My breath caught. "You're mistaken."
"Am I?" He took a step closer. His boots scraped the pavement—grit, scrape—and I fought the urge to step back. "You disappeared eight years ago. No forwarding address. No explanation."
"I don't owe this town anything."
"That's what everyone says," he replied calmly. "Before it takes something from them."
Anger flared, sharp and defensive. "If you're trying to scare me, you're doing a piss-poor job."
His gaze flicked briefly to the harbor, then back to me. "I'm not trying to scare you."
"Then what do you want?"
"For now?" He shrugged. "To make sure you don't disappear again."
A laugh escaped me, brittle. "You don't get to decide that."
"No," he agreed. "But someone else might."
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the distant clang of a buoy—clang... clang—and the low hum of wind rolling in from the sea.
"Why are you really here, Caoimhe?" he asked.
The question hit too close. "That's none of your business."
"Everything in this town becomes someone's business eventually."
I stared at him, searching for mockery, threat, anything obvious. All I found was restraint. Controlled. Intentional.
"I'm tired," I said finally. "Move."
He stepped aside without argument, inclining his head slightly as I passed. The scent of smoke and rain clung to him. For half a second, our shoulders brushed—whump—and something electric sparked through me, unwanted and sharp.
"Good night, Caoimhe," he said quietly. "Lock your doors."
I didn't turn around.
Inside the rental, the air was stale, like the place had been holding its breath. I dropped my bag by the door and leaned against it, heart racing. The lock clicked into place—click—then the deadbolt—thunk.
I exhaled.
"Get it together," I whispered to myself.
The living room was small but clean. A single lamp flickered when I turned it on—fzzzt—before settling into a dim glow. Outside, footsteps passed, then faded.
I checked my phone again. Another message.
You always did hate surprises.
My hands trembled as I typed.
Stop texting me.
The reply came instantly.
I can't. Not yet.
I threw the phone onto the couch like it had burned me.
Memories crept in despite my efforts—late-night walks, whispered promises, a scream I never answered. The past didn't feel distant here. It felt awake.
A knock sounded at the door.
Knock. Knock.
My blood ran cold.
"Who is it?" I called, hating the shake in my voice.
"Serafin," came the answer. "You might want to sit down."
I pressed my forehead against the door, eyes squeezed shut.
"Why?"
"Because," he said evenly, "someone's been asking questions about you. And they don't like being ignored."
The light flickered again—fzzzt—and went out.
In the darkness, my phone vibrated one last time.
Welcome home.