BAYHAND

The town that shouldn't exist

When the mist thinned, Bayhand revealed itself. The town sprawled along a crescent bay, its rooftops weathered and gray, leaning as though bowed by centuries of storms. Fishing boats bobbed in the harbor, though none bore flags or names. The place looked alive, yet frozen, as if untouched by time.

Liora guided her boat to the dock. Townsfolk paused in their work to stare at her — not with curiosity, but with a quiet wariness, as though they had seen her kind before. Children were ushered indoors, shutters closed. Still, no one stopped her as she stepped onto the worn planks of the pier.

She wandered narrow streets that wound like veins through the town. Stone cottages stood close together, their doors painted in muted colors, their windows curtained. The air smelled of salt and smoke, yet beneath it lingered another scent, faint but unsettling — damp wood and decay. She could not shake the feeling that Bayhand was holding its breath.

At the town square, she found a market of sorts. A few stalls displayed fish, bread, and woven goods. She tried to ask about lodging, but her questions were met with short, clipped replies. No one mentioned the sea, though it loomed just beyond the square, waves crashing against the breakwater. It was as if the townsfolk were pretending it didn’t exist.

As dusk settled, Liora finally found an inn where the keeper, a gaunt woman with sharp eyes, offered her a room without pleasantries. As Liora unpacked, she peered through the window toward the harbor. There, at the edge of the shore, stood a solitary figure cloaked in black, watching her through the fading light.