Page 1 of Evermore

First Light

River

Cold air bit at his skin as he slipped from beneath the heavy quilt, bare feet finding the worn wooden floor of the lighthouse cottage.

Through the kitchen window, Beacon Point's automated light swept across the water—thirty seconds of illumination, thirty seconds of darkness.

Eight months of living beneath that rhythm had made it the metronome of his solitary life.

Coffee first, always coffee first. Then wetsuit, fins, the whole routine that helped quiet whatever had been chasing him through his dreams. River grabbed his thermals from the back of the chair where he'd dropped them last night, still smelling faintly of salt and neoprene.

Sarah's letter was still sitting there on the counter, her loopy handwriting practically shouting at him from across the kitchen. He'd been avoiding it for three days now. River sighed and ripped it open while waiting for the coffee to finish its ancient gurgling.

Hey stranger, Still alive out there? Jake says you missed dinner again last week. I know, I know, you're busy saving the ocean one kelp forest at a time. But seriously, when's the last time you had an actual conversation with someone who isn't a sea urchin? Call me back. I worry. Love you, S

River crumpled the letter and tossed it toward the trash, missing by a foot. Sarah meant well, but she didn't get it. Some conversations were more dangerous than diving alone in a storm.

Crescent Beach was empty, thank god. The tourists couldn't handle the sketchy trail down the cliff face, and the locals knew to leave him alone when he was working.

River picked his way down the forty-foot drop, gear bag bouncing against his back.

The tide was perfect—low enough that his makeshift research station wasn't underwater, high enough that he could actually get to the good stuff.

He'd been monitoring this ecosystem for two years, documenting its slow recovery from chemical devastation. Each dive was a data point in a story of resilience that nobody else seemed interested in reading.

The wetsuit was a second skin, neoprene conforming to his body with intimate familiarity. River walked backward into the surf, letting the ocean claim him until he could slip beneath the surface into the world that made sense.

Forty feet down and the world finally made sense again.

No more lighthouse sweeping overhead, no more crumpled letters from worried sisters.

Just him and his breathing and the weird, beautiful alien landscape that most people would never see.

River moved through the kelp like he belonged there, camera in one hand, data sheet in the other, talking to the sea urchins like they were old friends.

“Looking good, guys,” he murmured into his regulator, watching a cluster of juveniles that had been bare rock six months ago. “Keep it up.”

The work ate up time without him noticing. Measuring, photographing, scribbling notes on waterproof paper about pH levels and growth rates. This was what he was good at—finding the hope in places everybody else had written off as dead.

His air gauge finally registered—time to surface. River made the slow ascent his training demanded, pausing to let nitrogen escape his bloodstream, eyes tracking sunlight through the water column above.

He broke surface near his gear station, pulling the regulator from his mouth. The morning had brightened while he was below, early light turning water from gray to green. Perfect visibility. Perfect conditions. Perfect solitude.

That's when he spotted the bottle.

It was bobbing against the rocks where the current always dumped random crap—usually beer bottles and plastic bags that made River want to throttle every tourist who'd ever visited the coast. But this one was different.

Old-school glass, thick and heavy, with what looked like actual wax sealing the top instead of some cheap metal cap.

River fished it out, curious despite himself. No barnacles, no slime, like it had just been dropped in the water yesterday. Which was weird, because everything that spent time in the ocean got claimed by something.

He cracked the wax with his dive knife, half-expecting the whole thing to fall apart. But the cork underneath came out clean, and there was actually paper inside. Dry paper, which should have been impossible.

River unrolled it carefully, the way he handled anything that might disintegrate if he breathed on it wrong.

The handwriting hit him first—old-fashioned and fancy, like someone had actually learned cursive instead of just faking it. Then he read the first line and felt his stomach drop straight through the ocean floor.

My dearest River,

I know this will seem impossible, but I need you to understand that what we have is real, even when you can't remember it. Even when I can't remember it. Even when time itself seems determined to keep us apart.

River's hands trembled as he continued reading, his rational mind searching for explanations while the words described details about his life no stranger should know.

The letter knew shit it shouldn't know. His research grids, his timing, the fact that his coffee was probably getting cold while he stood there reading.

River looked around the empty beach like maybe someone was hiding behind the rocks with binoculars, but there was nobody.

Just him and the waves and this impossible piece of paper.

You're looking for logical explanations right now, like the writer was inside his head.

Stalker, maybe. Elaborate prank. Case of mistaken identity.

But the truth is more complicated than that, and I don't have time to explain everything in one letter.

Just know that I love you, River. I love the way you talk to your marine samples when you think nobody's listening.

I love how you stand up to Dr. Reeves when she wants to rush your research timeline.

I love that you still wear your father's watch even though the salt water is slowly destroying it.

River's hand went to his wrist automatically, where Dad's old Submariner was fogging up again despite the supposedly waterproof gaskets.

The thing had been dying a slow death for two years now, but he couldn't make himself take it off.

Every dive felt like he was carrying a piece of his father with him, even if the salt was eating it alive.

How the hell did this person know about the watch? About him talking to sea urchins like they were therapy animals? About the way he pushed back when Dr. Reeves tried to rush his work?

The letter continued, filled with intimate observations about his storm nightmares, his habit of eating cereal for dinner when research consumed his attention, the guilt that made him push into dangerous conditions. The writer—signed only as “Finn”—knew details River had never shared with anyone.

I'm writing this during one of the clear moments, when I can remember everything we've shared. By tomorrow, it might be gone again, but tonight the love feels so real I could drown in it. Be careful out there, River. The ocean took your father, but it doesn't get to have you too.

Always yours, Finn

River read the letter three times, searching for clues that would reveal the hoax. The paper felt genuinely aged, the ink slightly faded like fountain pen work exposed to salt air. The handwriting showed emotional variations that suggested authenticity rather than forgery.

But the content was impossible. Nobody knew about his conversations with marine samples or his father's watch. He'd never mentioned storm nightmares to anyone, not even Jake. The details were too intimate, too specific.

River folded the letter carefully and secured it in his gear bag, hands moving automatically while his mind raced. The name “Finn” meant nothing to him. He'd never met anyone by that name, never had a relationship that could produce such intimate knowledge.

The rational part of his brain insisted there had to be an explanation. People didn't just know things about strangers. Love letters didn't appear in bottles with impossible timing and accurate predictions.

But as River climbed back to his truck, the letter's words echoed with disturbing persistence. It felt less like someone observing his behavior and more like someone who had lived inside his head.

The Beacon Point Marine Research Station was functional concrete and steel that prioritized durability over aesthetics. River's lab was controlled environment where he could process samples without distraction, but today the familiar space felt claustrophobic.

He arranged his morning's collection—water samples, photographs, data—but his attention kept drifting to the letter in his desk drawer. Every time he tried to focus on pH readings or kelp growth, his mind returned to those impossible words.

“You look like hell, Hayes.”

Jake was leaning in the doorway with his coffee and that stupid grin that meant he was about to give River shit about something. His ranger uniform was already trashed from whatever he'd been doing since dawn—mud, salt spray, the usual evidence of actually working for a living.

“Gee, thanks. Really what I needed to hear today.” River didn't look up from his microscope, even though he'd been staring at the same slide for twenty minutes without actually seeing it.

“I'm just saying, you look like you've been wrestling with existential dread again.” Jake wandered into the lab like he owned the place, which, honestly, he kind of did at this point. “What's eating you?”

River almost told him about the letter. Almost pulled the damn thing out of his desk and said, Here, read this and tell me I'm not losing my mind. But it felt too weird, too personal. Like showing someone your diary.

“Just working through some data,” he said instead.