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Chapter One

Calum

The rain begins as I pull into the gravel drive of Holiday House.

The cottage looms ahead, its white clapboard siding dulled by the storm, the windows dark.

Ravensreach is all shadows and sharp edges tonight, the kind of place where the sea howls louder than the wind and the trees bend under the weight of secrets.

I cut the engine and sit in the silence for a moment, the rhythmic patter of rain on the windshield the only sound.

My fingers clutch the steering wheel like it might keep me grounded, but nothing feels real anymore.

Not the storm, not the cottage, not the hollow ache in my chest where Annabel used to live.

I step out into the rain, my boots sinking into the soft gravel as the wind pushes against me. By the time I reach the door, I’m soaked, my coat heavy with water. My hand hesitates on the brass handle, the chill of the metal biting through my skin. I don’t want to go inside.

But I do.

The door creaks open, and the scent hits me first—jasmine and something floral, faint but unmistakable. Annabel’s perfume lingers in the air, clinging to the walls like a ghost. I close the door behind me and lean against it, my chest tight, my breath coming in shallow bursts.

The living room is exactly as we left it.

Her scarf draped over the rocking chair in the corner.

A wine glass with the faintest trace of red still sitting on the coffee table.

The painting I made of her hangs over the fireplace, her face turned toward the viewer, a smirk pulling at her lips like she knows something you don’t.

It’s as if she’s still here, favorite blanket draped over her lap as she stares out at the churning sea.

“Annabel,” I whisper, the name catching in my throat. Saying it feels like a betrayal, as if speaking it might tether her spirit here, keep her from wherever she’s supposed to be.

The wind howls outside, rattling the windows, and for a moment, I think I hear her laugh. That breathy, careless sound that used to drive me mad, equal parts enchantment and torment.

Let me in. Let me in. Let me in. She seems to call out to me.

But it’s only the storm, mocking me.

I shrug off my coat, letting it fall to the floor, and move deeper into the house.

Every step feels weighted, like I’m trespassing on sacred ground.

Her presence is everywhere, woven into the fabric of this place.

The throw pillows she insisted on buying.

The stack of books on the side table, each with her scrawled notes in the margins.

The record player in the corner, still cued to one of her favorite jazz albums.

I can almost see her here, leaning against the counter, her hair falling into her face as she teases me about something trivial, her voice light and full of mischief.

“You’re staring again,” she’d say, her lips quirking into that infuriating smile .

“Maybe I like staring,” I’d reply, and she’d roll her eyes but secretly love it.

I set the cup down carefully, as if it might shatter under the weight of my grief. My hand trembles, and I clench it into a fist, willing myself to hold it together. The house is too quiet, too still. It feels wrong, like the world has been muted since she left.

I move to the bedroom, the place I’ve been dreading most. The door creaks as I push it open, and the sight hits me like a punch to the gut.

The bed is unmade, the sheets tangled from the last night we spent here.

Her robe hangs on the back of the chair, and her hairbrush sits on the vanity, strands of midnight black still caught in the bristles.

I step inside, my chest tightening as I take it all in. The scent of her perfume is stronger here, almost suffocating. I sit on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, and let the memories wash over me.

The first time we came here, she was radiant, a sunbeam cutting through the storm clouds of my life. She twirled in the living room, her arms outstretched, her laugh filling the space like music.

“This place is perfect for us,” she’d said, her eyes shining. “Don’t you think, Calum?”

I’d nodded, unable to look away from her. She was the kind of beautiful that left you breathless, that made you question whether you were worthy of standing in her light.

“We’ll make it ours,” she’d promised, pulling me into her arms. “Every inch of it. Just you and me.”

I drag myself back to the present, the weight of her absence pressing down on me. The wind rattles the windows again, and I glance toward them, half-expecting to see her standing outside, her hair whipping in the storm, her eyes bright with some secret she’s dying to share.

But she’s not there. She’s not anywhere .

The sharp crack of thunder startles me, and I stand, unable to stay in the room any longer. I move to the living room, pacing like a caged animal. My thoughts are a jumbled mess, memories and regrets colliding in a chaotic spiral.

I stop in front of the fireplace, my gaze drawn to the painting.

It’s her, but it’s not. The Annabel in the painting is untouchable, immortalized in oil and canvas, her smirk daring anyone to try and capture her.

The real Annabel was softer, more complex.

She was a contradiction, a storm wrapped in sunlight.

“Why did you leave me?” I ask the painting, my voice raw. “Why?”

The wind howls in response, the storm raging outside as if the universe is mocking my pain. I sink to the floor, my back against the couch, and let the silence engulf me. The house feels alive, pulsing with her energy, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

I pull my phone from my pocket, scrolling through old messages, pictures, anything that might bring her closer. Her voice echoes in my mind, teasing and playful, but always just out of reach.

“You’re too serious, Calum,” she’d said once, sprawled across the couch with a glass of wine in hand. “Life isn’t meant to be lived like this, all rules and expectations. You have to let go.”

“Not everyone can live like you, living off family money,” I’d replied, my tone sharper than I intended. “Some of us have responsibilities.”

She’d laughed, a sound that felt like both a caress and a slap. “Maybe that’s your problem.”

I toss the phone aside, the screen going dark as it lands on the carpet. My chest feels hollow, like something vital has been ripped out, leaving nothing but emptiness in its place. The storm outside mirrors the chaos inside me, a relentless force that won’t let me rest.

I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at nothing. Eventually, the rain begins to ease, the wind dying down until the only sound is the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.

I stand, my legs stiff, and move to the window. The storm has passed, but the sky is still dark, the horizon a jagged line where the sea meets the sky. I press my hand against the glass, the cold seeping into my skin, and close my eyes.

“Annabel,” I whisper, her name a prayer, a plea. “Come back.”

But the house remains silent, and I know she’s gone. No matter how hard I wish, how desperately I cling to the fragments of her that linger here, she’s not coming back.

The world shifted when she died, like the earth tilted just enough to throw everything off balance. I haven’t stood steady since.

And I’m still not sure I can live in a world without her.