Chapter 3 · free to read
We climbed out of the chapel with the water at our heels, and the flame was still burning.
It would not leave my hand. Not on the table, not in a drawer, not over the rail.
The water below us had gone flat as poured lead. Slack tide, and it did not turn.
The sea had not failed to take a keeper. It had paused — the way a buyer pauses, when the price is worth arguing over.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.