The scent of salt and damp wood filled Rowan Creed’s small bedroom, even though the sea was far away. The open window carried in the distant sound of waves crashing against the docks, mixing with the cries of seagulls that soared through the overcast sky. Despite the natural beauty of his coastal town, Rowan sat curled in the corner of his room, staring at the wooden ship on his desk.

It was an old thing, polished smooth over time, no taller than his hand, yet carved with such fine detail that each plank and sail looked as if it could move at any moment. His father had given it to him when he was five, kneeling down with that serious look in his eyes.

"This is special, Rowan. Take care of it."

That was all he had said. No explanation, no stories—just those words. And then, five years later, his father was gone, swallowed by the very sea he had spent his life sailing.

Rowan clenched his fists.

He loved the sea—or at least the idea of it. His room was proof of that. Posters of grand sailing ships, treasure maps, and heroic sailors covered his walls. There was a worn copy of Treasure Island next to his bed, alongside dog-eared adventure novels. The problem wasn’t that he didn’t want adventure. The problem was that he was afraid of the sea itself.

Ever since his father’s disappearance, he had refused to step onto a boat, even as his friends leapt eagerly onto fishing vessels for summer jobs. His mother had tried to encourage him, but she had remarried too soon—too easily, in Rowan’s eyes—and he had grown distant from her.

He ran a hand through his dark hair and turned back to the ship. Its tiny sails seemed frozen in time, untouched by dust, despite how long it had sat there.

"I don’t get you," he muttered under his breath. "Why did he care so much about a stupid toy?"

With a sigh, he got up and went to the window. Below, the small coastal town bustled with its usual life. Fishermen unloaded their latest catch, and children chased each other along the docks. The sky was cloudy, the waves restless.

"Ro, come down and have breakfast!"

His mother’s voice rang through the house, but Rowan hesitated. He sat frozen at the window, staring out at the distant horizon where the sea met the sky. A part of him wanted to stay here, to keep searching for something—anything—that might explain why he had seen that strange flicker near the cliffs.

But he already knew that if he didn’t come down, she’d call him again. And again.

And he’d have to face him.

Rowan clenched his jaw and dragged himself away from the window, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. As he stepped out into the hallway, the familiar tension in his chest tightened. His stepfather, Marcus, would already be at the table, drinking his bitter black coffee, reading the newspaper like he actually cared about anything besides himself.

Marcus wasn’t a bad man—not according to everyone else. The neighbors thought he was respectable, hardworking, a man who took care of his family. But to Rowan, he was nothing more than an unwelcome presence in his home.

Rowan didn’t hate him just because he wasn’t his father. He hated him because Marcus made no effort to be anything but a stepfather. He didn’t try to connect. He didn’t try to understand. He was just there, like a machine—waking up, working, eating, and shouting.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Especially shouting.

Rowan took the stairs slowly, already dreading what was coming.

When he stepped into the small kitchen, his mother, Evelyn, was setting plates on the table. She looked tired. She always looked tired these days. Dark circles under her eyes, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, her lips pressed together in that same tense expression she wore whenever she tried to pretend everything was fine.

And then there was Marcus, sitting at the head of the table, dressed in his work uniform. He barely glanced at Rowan before taking a sip of coffee.

"You’re late," Marcus muttered, flipping through the newspaper. "No surprise there."

Rowan bit his tongue and sat down. His mother passed him a plate of eggs and toast, but he had no appetite.

"Are you still wasting time with that metal detector?" Marcus asked, not looking up. "Or did you finally realize that playing treasure hunter isn’t going to get you anywhere?"

Rowan’s grip on his fork tightened. He didn’t respond.

"Maybe if you spent half as much time studying as you do running around in the dirt, you wouldn’t be failing math."

"Marcus—" his mother started, but he cut her off with a look.

"It’s true. Kid’s got no future if he keeps this up."

Rowan’s stomach twisted. It was always like this. Every morning, every night—always the same lectures, the same criticisms. It didn’t matter what he did; Marcus always found something to be disappointed about. He never saw what Rowan could do. He never cared.

Rowan’s father—his father—had never been like this. Even when he was strict, he was fair. He encouraged Rowan’s curiosity. He never made him feel small.

Rowan swallowed down the lump in his throat and shoved his plate away.

"I’m not hungry," he muttered, pushing back his chair.

His mother sighed. "Rowan, please—"

But he was already walking out. He didn’t want to hear her tell him to try harder, to be patient, to understand Marcus. He didn’t want to hear anything.

He just wanted to be alone.

As Rowan stepped out onto the front porch, he barely made it three steps before he heard Marcus call after him.

"Rowan! At least take this with you. Try to do something useful for once and catch some fish."

Rowan turned around just in time to see Marcus holding out a fishing rod—the same one he had given Rowan years ago, back when he first started dating his mother. The sight of it made Rowan’s stomach twist.

His mother’s sister had once told him that Evelyn remarried so quickly because she thought Rowan needed a father figure. That Marcus would help him "grow up right." Maybe that was why she had said yes barely a year after Rowan’s father disappeared at sea.

Rowan clenched his fists.

Marcus had never been, and never would be, his father.

"I’m not interested in fishing," Rowan muttered, turning away.

"Figures," Marcus said with a scoff, pulling the rod back. "You don’t even have to step foot in the water, but you’d still rather run around playing treasure hunter than do something actually useful."

Rowan ignored him. He strode back inside, his heart hammering with frustration, and made his way straight to his room.

He didn’t care about fishing. He didn’t care about catching anything from the sea. The people of the small port town made their living that way, but he wanted something different.

Something more.

Rowan knelt beside his bed and pulled out the old, battered metal detector—his father’s metal detector. The one thing that still made him feel connected to the man he had lost.

His father had spent hours scanning the shore with this very device, the beeping sound filling the air as he swept it back and forth over the sand. And when Rowan had asked him what he was searching for, his father had only smiled and said:

"Something I threw away a long time ago. Something I want back."

At the time, Rowan hadn’t understood. He had been too young to grasp the meaning behind his father’s words. But he had watched him search, over and over, never giving up—even when all he found were rusted nails, bottle caps, and bits of old junk.

Rowan had once thought his father was looking for treasure. Maybe even something magical. But now, he wasn’t sure.

All he knew was that ever since his father vanished, he felt closest to him when he was walking that same shoreline, metal detector in hand, listening to the rhythmic beeping and wondering what secrets lay buried beneath the sand.

Rowan slung the metal detector over his shoulder and left the house without another word.

Rowan trudged down the dirt path that led to the beach, his metal detector slung over his shoulder. The salty breeze stung his face, and the sound of crashing waves filled the air. It was early morning, and the tide had pulled back, leaving damp sand behind—perfect for scanning.

He flicked on the detector and began sweeping it over the sand, the familiar beeping breaking the quiet. Step by step, he moved carefully, eyes locked on the ground, waiting for a stronger signal.

Nothing.

A few more steps.

A faint beep.

Rowan dug into the sand with his hands, hoping—just maybe—this time he’d find something worthwhile. But when his fingers finally grasped the object, he pulled out a rusted bottle cap.

With a sigh, he tossed it aside and kept going.

This was how it always went.

Most people in town had already given up trying to talk him out of it. At first, they had humored him, asking if he had found anything interesting. Then they started giving him sympathetic looks, reminding him, Your father isn’t coming back. Eventually, they stopped commenting altogether.

But he still felt their eyes on him. Fishermen mending their nets near the docks, merchants setting up their small stalls along the road, travelers stopping by the seaside inn—they all saw him, yet no one said anything anymore.

It didn’t matter. Rowan didn’t do this for them.

The beeping continued.

Junk.

More junk.

Still, he kept going.