Page 2

2

The deep rumble of thunder shakes me awake. I bolt upright, heart pounding, breath caught in my throat. Hawthorn Manor groans around me, the sound of an aging house exhausted by decades of battering rain and relentless sun. Something woke me, but I don't know what.

Glancing at the clock, the hurricane was predicted to have reached its peak several hours ago. Now, all I hear is a ghostly quiet, only interrupted by the faint whistling of the wind through a crack in the window sill. My breath slows as I strain to listen, and then I notice it- the faint, rhythmic splashing of water coming from downstairs.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet reluctant to meet the icy wooden floor. I grab my phone and turn on the flashlight app. The beam jumps with my unsteady grip as I step cautiously toward the staircase, fingers tightening around the banister. The air inside feels thick and humid, the remnants of the storm clinging to everything, making the house feel suffocating.

The splashing grows louder, more persistent. At the bottom of the stairs, my flashlight catches on the source of the noise, and my stomach clenches. Water pools across the uneven floorboards, reflecting the dim light in broken, shimmering patterns. The storm forced its way inside.

I step forward cautiously, my slippers soaking through as cold water seeps in. The faint sound of dripping draws me toward the far wall, where a steady trickle slides down the cracked plaster. The sight takes a large bite of me; leaving behind an emerging sense of despair.

This house—our supposed fresh start—feels like a cruel joke. It isn’t just the storm damage or the unfinished renovations; it’s the weight of everything it represents. My fractured marriage, my guilt over Lila, the dreams I abandoned. Every flaw in these walls mirrors my own cracks, and tonight, I feel every single one of them.

The floorboards creak beneath me as I move deeper into the room, my flashlight catching on the warped edges of the wood. The water pools unevenly, collecting in the room's low points. I follow the water, my frustration mounting as I realize the extent of the damage.

Dismay claws at my throat, and before I can stop myself, I let out a scream—a raw, guttural release of everything I’ve been holding in. The sound ricochets through the empty house, filling every neglected corner. I grab the closest object—an old lacrosse stick from Nate's college days—and swing. The plaster gives way easily, crumbling under the force. I swing again. And again. Until the stick splinters in my hands.

Panting, I collapse onto the waterlogged floor, surrounded by darkness and the wreckage of my outburst.

For a moment, I just sit there, trembling, cold water seeping through my pajamas. The house is silent except for the faint sound of water lapping at the floor. I lean back against the damp wall and close my eyes. I've been holding everything together for so long, pretending I could fix this—the house, my marriage, myself. But tonight, the storm stripped away that illusion, exposing me.

As my breathing steadies, my gaze drifts downward. Something about the floor catches my attention. A single board, slightly raised at one corner, seems out of place. I frown, leaning forward to inspect it. My fingers brush against the edge, and with a slight push, the board shifts under my touch.

Curiosity replaces my distress as I pry the board loose. Beneath it is a small, dark space filled with murky water. I reach in, my fingers brushing against something solid. I pull it out slowly, my pulse quickening as I realize what I'm holding.

A film canister.

The black plastic shell feels strange in my hand, its gray lid loose from years of neglect. I twist it off, revealing a tightly rolled piece of paper. My fingers tremble slightly as I unroll it, the delicate fibers resisting after years of being tucked away in the dark.

A map.

A crude drawing of our new town, Mount Dora. Deliberate strokes shape the streets, while a large "X" sits near the edge of what looks like a huge body of water.

My mind races. What could this lead to? Treasure? A secret buried in the house’s past? The possibilities spark something inside me—something I haven't felt in a long time: purpose.

I carefully fold the map and tuck it under my arm. The house creaks around me, as if it, too, has been waiting for this discovery. Replacing the floorboard as best I can, I climb back upstairs, my thoughts buzzing. What was the significance of the map? Who hid it, and why?

Slipping out of my wet pajamas, I crawl back into bed, fingers still tracing the edges of the parchment. The storm outside can rage all it wants. I have something new to focus on, something that makes the heaviness in my chest lift—if only a little.

My eyes drift shut, exhaustion pulling me under. Just before sleep claims me, I murmur, "Goodnight, Lila."

Somewhere in the darkness, just as I fade into the grey of sleep I almost think I hear a response?—

"Goodnight, Margot."

3

The morning sun struggles against the heavy clouds still clinging to the sky in the aftermath of the storm. Humid air presses down on me, thick with the scent of wet earth and sodden wood. I step onto the porch, squinting against the unexpected brightness, taking in the devastation left behind. The lawn is a battlefield of fallen branches, uprooted shrubs, and scattered debris. A small tool shed lies in pieces across the gravel driveway; it remains a casualty of the hurricane's fury.

Behind me, Hawthorn Manor looms, standing defiantly against the shifting sky. The once-imposing gothic structure bears new scars—streaks of rain-washed decay and fresh wounds where the storm has taken its toll. Ivy clings desperately to the stonework, stretching hungrily upward as if trying to reclaim the house entirely. The steeply pitched roof, framed by towering chimneys, seems to glare down at me in silent accusation. This house has survived worse. But today, it feels tired, battered, as if even it knows how close we came to ruin.

Hawthorn Manor sits atop the highest point in Mount Dora, a commanding presence at the crossroads of Sixth Avenue and Donnelly Street. From here, the entire town unfolds below—brick-lined streets winding through historic shops, cafes, and colorful buildings that have stood the test of time. The manor's vantage point offers an unobstructed view of Lake Dora, its vast, rippling waters stretching across 4,385 acres. The largest lake in the Harris Chain it dominates the landscape, hugging the town's edges like an ever-present guardian. Spanish moss drapes from the cypress trees along its banks, and in the morning, mist hovers just above the water's surface, lending the place an otherworldly calm.

From this height, I can see where the storm has left its mark—boats tossed haphazardly against the docks, debris floating along the shoreline, and the usually pristine lakefront park now littered with broken limbs and overturned benches. With its old-world charm and sleepy Southern elegance, Mount Dora wears the storm's scars like fresh bruises, but I know the town will recover. It always does.

I pull out my phone, hoping for a message from Nate. A simple text to say he made it to DC, maybe even an acknowledgment that he thought of me at all during the storm.

Nothing.