Saltwater.

An old, forgotten coastal town, hidden by jagged cliffs and facing a rough, restless sea. No matter the season, the grey clouds had always been an ever-present sight, extending for miles on end, making the sky as ominous as the deep water beneath it.

The roads covered by cobblestone, having seen both the marching of heels and the fumes of small rusty cars; even the buildings had an air of neglect to them, with colorful paint turned dull and gradually peeling off.

The harbor, along with the tiny town square, are probably the most lively parts of town, bustling with dozens of folks wrapped in heavy raincoats, all while the boats covered in barnacles bob quietly in the background.

Now and then, a ray of sun manages to find its way through the thick blanket of clouds, bringing life and warmth to both the people and the sea, allowing the few small beaches to shine for a second with their golden sand.

It's easy to breathe in Saltwater, unlike any other town I've ever been in. I realize this as soon as the car surpasses the big crooked sign announcing my arrival. Even without being close to the shore, I can still smell the salt and brine, their scent filling my lungs along with the cold air. It's as if I'd been quietly suffocating my whole life, and I'm only now finally able to allow myself to take in all the oxygen I've been desperately searching for. It's exhilarating.

I begin hearing the cry of seagulls the closer I get to the heart of Saltwater, and it almost feels as if they are greeting me; as if they've been waiting for me.

The car moves at a painfully slow pace, dragging itself along the road, the back seats and the trunk filled to the brim with every last piece of my now past. Maybe it's time to buy a new one, I think to myself; but I know I will never do it, not unless it breaks and there are no chances of repairing it. After all, this was Dad's car. He used to love it.

"Was the drive okay? Have you arrived yet?" Tristan's voice resonates inside the car, the speakers vibrating with each word.

"Yeah, I'm almost at the house. I hope I wasn't scammed..."

"Nah, no way! It's not like it's a touristy place; even I have never heard of Saltwater. They were probably desperate to finally sell it to someone. Oh, by the way, how did you even find that place?"

I shrug, even if I know he can't see me. Almost unwillingly, my eyes shift to the old, yellowed picture resting on the passenger seat.

"I don't know, I just looked for something cheap and this town came up. Plus the sea's really close; I bet it could be nice in summer."

That's a lie, but Tristan doesn't need to know it yet. I didn't just "stumble" upon this town. It had been swirling around in my thoughts for a while.

Ever since I was young, there has always been a framed picture on the mantel of my grandparents' house, hidden by the many family portraits. It was of a beach, with a child sitting down on the sand and laughing. I didn't recognize him, but upon asking, I was told that it was my great-grandfather.

No one else seemed to care much about that specific picture; after all, it had nothing peculiar about it. It was probably just a nice memory from years and years ago that my grandparents thought of framing for old time's sake.

But for me, it was different.

I had always been drawn to that photo. I had always been fascinated by the sea in the background, by the cheerful smile of the boy, by the energy it gave off. Sometimes, I remember my parents would find me sitting down, staring at it after hours of looking around for me. I'm not sure what it was about it that had me so enthralled, but even as I grew older, whenever I walked in front of it, my feet would naturally draw to a stop, and my gaze would linger on it for a few moments.

Right after the passing of my mother, when I decided it was time for me to start fresh, that picture was the very first that came to mind. It had to be there. I had to go there. Luckily for me, I didn't have to search much for clues on where it was taken. On the back, written in black ink, was a single word:

Saltwater.

"Ezra, dude, that place looks anything but nice and sunny; I sincerely doubt it will be that nice in the summer."

"Hey, don't judge. It's a bit gloomy but I'm sure once the sun's out it will be fine!"

"If you say so..." There's a noise in the background, and Tristan stops for a second. "Oh, Sarah just came back. I'll call you later, okay? Keep me updated!"

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"Yeah, that's fine; I've just arrived anyway. Later."

Tristan hangs up, and I'm left in the silence once again, with only the distant seagulls as my companions.

The tires screech as I pull over in front of the timeworn building. As soon as I lift my head up to take a better look at it, I notice an old woman standing in front of the door, waving her hand. Next to her is a younger, burly man.

"Hi, dear! You must be Ezra, right? Ezra Nerith?" she says, her voice warm and comforting. "You're right on time!"

I step out of the car, dragging the first of the many luggages behind me and flashing a smile to the two of them. "Yes, I'm Ezra; it's nice to meet you. Thank you for welcoming me."

"Oh, of course! Here, follow me; I will show you around the house. Tobias there will help move all your boxes inside, if that's okay with you? He might look scary but he's my son; no need to worry!" She lets out a giggle, patting the man on his arm.

I shift my gaze to him, and only then do I notice how tall and muscular he truly is. A bit taken aback, I lift my hand to greet him, only for Tobias to nod and trudge towards my car.

"Don't mind him; he's just shy. His body might be huge but he's still a scaredy cat." The woman wraps her slim arm around mine, the smell of lavender coming from her coat hitting my nose like a punch. It's strong, but not unpleasant. It almost reminds me of the old gowns sitting in my own grandma's closet. "Shall we?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ah, don't be silly! No need to call me ma'am. I'm Sylvia."

Sylvia laughs again, and I can tell she has a lot of energy, even despite her age. I follow her inside, and as soon as I step in, I'm greeted by the smell of burning wood mixed with a hint of mold. I guess it should be expected of an old house near the sea; who knows for how long it has been waiting for someone to bring it back to life?

"I hope you don't mind; since it's getting a bit chilly we've lit up the fire before you arrived. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold on your first night here!"

As she talks, I begin to take in my surroundings. The house is definitely in need of some renovation, but it has a certain charm about it. I'm not sure if it's because of the antique wooden floors, or the raw stones left uncovered on the walls, or maybe the small, cozy couch covered in blankets sitting right in front of the fireplace, but the more I look at it, the more I feel at home.

The kitchen is nestled behind a short half-wall, slightly hidden away from the living room; it's simple, but functional: stove, oven, and a sink facing a dusty window. All the cabinets are carved from a dark wood, and all the surfaces are covered in terracotta colored tiles.

Sylvia grabs my arm gently once more, this time leading me up the creaking stairs. On the second floor, there's a compact bathroom which seems to be in good enough state, albeit a bit outdated. The hallway is narrow, but the square window right in the middle of it makes up for it, allowing for a bit of natural light to come in.

"And now the main event!" She opens the last door in front of us, right at the end of the hallway, revealing what is probably the biggest room in all of the house.

On the left, there's a double bed, and I can tell right away it's made from a different quality of wood compared to the rest of the house. The duvet on top looks nice and heavy, and the linens seem to be quite expensive as well. On each side of it is a nightstand, both decorated with crocheted doilies on top of which antique lamps are sitting, brightening the room with a soft, warm light.

On the right, however, there's a big library, stacked full with all kinds of books. In the middle of it sits a desk, full of pens and writing utensils neatly arranged. The rug underneath is dark and worn out, but somehow it still manages to bring the room together.

"As you might have read on the website, there's only one thing I ask of anyone that decides to buy this house... to not throw away the furniture." Sylvia stops for a second, her eyes wandering all over the room, and for a brief second I think I can see a distant fondness in them. "You see, everything here belonged to my late husband. If possible, I wish for his books to stay here. Of course you can decorate however you like, and bring more! But if you want to make this old lady happy, please allow the books to stay." She turns her gaze to

me, hopeful.

"Of course. I actually like how the room looks just as it is."

Her lips break into the most genuine smile yet, and I find myself thinking she almost has the expression of a child. "Oh, thank you! What a kind young man you are!"

As she pats my arm excitedly, I notice the big painting right above the bed. The whole house is full of art and decor; however, this one in particular has something unusual about it. Before I can catch myself, I take a step toward it, my eyes narrowing slightly.

"What...?"

It's a portrait of two men sitting on a beach, one behind the other, staring at an approaching storm and tumultuous sea. Both men are covered in shadows, their traits hidden.

Suddenly, I feel a chill run through my whole body. Could this be...? No. It's not possible.

How could my recurring dream have been pictured so perfectly in a painting from who knows how many years ago?

A coincidence. Surely, it must be just that. Surely, I must be mistaken. After all, it's not like the dream had any extraordinary details about it. If I'm being honest, it was actually quite simple. Yes, of course I'm not the first person to envision two men on a beach. Of course. Don't be stupid, Ezra.

But even so, how do I explain the fact that the sea has the exact same ominous feeling that has been choking me in my sleep for the past year?

"Oh dear, do you like that painting? It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Sylvia snaps me out of my trance, and only then do I notice the cold drops of sweat forming on my forehead.

"I... Yes, I guess it is..."

"It's actually from a local artist! Isn't that amazing? He's a young man just like you, probably around the same age. I hear he's pretty famous, even outside of Saltwater! When my husband managed to get his hands on one of his works, oh, how thrilled he was!"

Local artist? A young man?

"Uh... I had no idea. I don't think I know of him... Um, maybe I should get—"

"I'm sure you'll get to meet him sooner or later; he's quite the celeb around here."

My eyes fall on the tiny, faded signature in the corner of the painting, and for some reason, my heart seems to skip a beat, only to jump into my throat, making it harder and harder to swallow. That name... I'm sure I've never seen it before in my entire life. So why...?

"His name is Viktor. Viktor Morskoy."

***