The coordinates led them to the edge of the coast—where the land no longer trusted the ocean.
Cliffs jagged like torn paper, sea winds howling curses.
Orla stood staring down at the drop, the waves crashing below as if they were trying to swallow a secret too heavy for the earth to hold.
Stanley stood behind her.
Close, but not close enough.
She hadn’t spoken since they left the house. Not after what Clara’s final letter revealed.
Not after the name.
Aster.
She didn’t know who Aster was—but something about it rang like an old wound.
One that had never scarred over.
They reached the cottage by nightfall.
It was tucked beneath twisted pine trees, the windows boarded up, roof half-collapsed.
No signs of life.
But Orla knocked anyway.
The door creaked open.
A girl stood there—no
