He didn't sleep much that night.
It wasn't the cold — though it had crept back into the air — or the hunger twisting his gut. It was the stillness. A thick, unnatural quiet that clung to the boat like fog.
He lay curled on the bench, half-dreaming, half-awake, heart pacing like it knew something he didn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the same thing: a bathtub filling slowly. The sound of water — not waves this time, but from a faucet, steady, rising. Then came the knock on the door.
Always the knock.
Then silence.
He sat up before the memory could finish.
The sky was dull again, that weird gray that had no time in it. It wasn't morning. It wasn't night. It just… was.
The boat creaked under him — slower now, like it was tired too.
He stood, legs shaking, stretching out his arms for balance. That's when he saw it.
Something was lying in the boat.
Near the back, tucked under the last bench. It hadn't been there before — he was sure of it. He would've noticed.
He crouched, heart ticking faster, and reached for it.
It was small. Cold. A little rusted.
A key.
Just a simple, old-fashioned key on a chain. Bronze, maybe. It looked like something from a locker or a desk drawer. But the second he touched it, everything stopped.
The ocean. The wind. Even the boat — dead still.
And his head… his head lit up.
Flash.
A bedroom. Curtains half-drawn. Music playing on a phone speaker. His fingers wrapping around the very same key, shoving it into a drawer, locking it fast.
Flash.
A letter. Crumpled. Ripped. Thrown in a bin.
Flash.
Lia. Standing in a doorway. Tears in her eyes.
"You don't have to pretend anymore."
Then darkness again.
He stumbled backward, breathing hard, nearly tipping the boat. His hands shook as he held the key. His palms were sweaty, but the chain was still ice cold.
He knew that key. He just didn't know why it mattered yet.
The sky cracked above — a distant rumble like something far away had just woken up.
He looked around, alert now. The water wasn't calm anymore. It wasn't wild, but it was… churning. The way it moves when something's just under the surface.
A shadow passed beneath the boat.
Quick. Long.
He dropped to his knees, peering into the water. But all he saw was his reflection — flickering, stretched.
"Okay," he whispered, gripping the edge, "I'm not losing it. I'm just… I'm remembering, right? That's good."
The boat shifted again.
Only… it didn't creak.
It groaned. A low, warped sound — like wood bending where it shouldn't. The boards beneath his feet felt… soft. Like they'd been soaking too long. Warped.
He looked around — really looked.
The edges of the boat were cracked now. The paint was peeling. The sides were darker, water-stained. Even the seat he'd been sleeping on looked thinner.
Had it always been like this?
He touched the key again.
Another memory surged forward.
Flash.
The bathroom mirror. His face — hollow-eyed, just like now. His hand hovering over a bottle. White pills. He wasn't crying. Just… staring.
Waiting.
Then the door. Someone banging. Yelling. A voice. Lia?
And him — locking it. With that key.
He gasped, dropping it.
It clinked against the wooden floor and spun, the chain looping like a noose.
"No, no no no—" he muttered.
The wind picked up. Fast.
Clouds rolled in from nowhere. The sky split — a flash of lightning tearing through it like a crack in glass. The thunder this time wasn't far. It was right above him.
The waves hit the boat hard. It rocked sideways, smacking his shoulder into the edge. He scrambled, trying to grab the key, but the boat tilted again — this time dangerously.
Rain followed, sudden and cold. Not soft like before — sharp, like needles.
He gripped the edges of the boat with both hands. "What do you want from me!?"
Another wave crashed. This one hit so hard, the boat lifted, then slammed down. His chest hit the bench. He coughed.
The sea roared louder now. Not natural — almost like it was angry.
Through the madness, a voice came again. But not from the sky. Not from the water.
From inside his own head.
"You locked the truth away."
It was his voice.
He looked down at the key again, now lying still.
That storm wasn't just weather.
It was memory. Breaking in.
And he had a feeling — no, he knew — that if he followed it, if he really let it in, he wouldn't be able to come back from it.
But maybe… he was never supposed to.