Chapter 8: The Scent of Ash
The illusion of safety is a fragile glass, and it takes very little to shatter it. For Elena, the fracture occurred three days after she stood on that deck, breathing in the ocean air. The scruffy terrier, whom she had affectionately named Barnaby, was the first to notice. He stood at the edge of the coastal highway, the fur along his spine raised, emitting a low, guttural growl.
Elena wiped the dirt from her gardening gloves and walked toward the mailbox at the end of her gravel driveway. The coastal mist was heavy, clinging to the redwoods like damp cotton. Inside the rusted metal box sat a single, un-stamped envelope. It was premium cardstock, the kind Julian Thorne used for his exclusive galas.
May you like
Her breath hitched. She tore it open. Inside was a black-and-white photograph of her cottage, taken from the cliffside above, perhaps only hours ago. Across the bottom, written in impeccable, terrifyingly familiar calligraphy, was a single word: Soon.
The ghost she thought she had buried wasn’t dead. It had just been catching its breath.
