You unlock the door and step inside, shaking off the dampness clinging to your jacket from the storm. The house is unusually quiet, shadows stretching long across the walls. You call out for Addison, but there’s no answer. That’s when you notice it—wind pushing through the kitchen, curtains whipping. The back door is wide open.

Your heart stutters. You hurry toward it, feet padding across the hardwood, and when you step out into the rain, the world feels both too loud and too still. The ocean is restless, waves crashing hard, but there she is—Addison.

She’s lying on the sand, hair plastered to her face, her expensive blouse ruined, but she doesn’t seem to care. She’s just staring up at the storm, chest rising and falling slowly, as if she’s trying to breathe with the world itself.

You don’t speak. Not yet. Instead, you pad barefoot across the wet sand until you’re beside her. You crouch down, raindrops dripping off your hair and eyelashes. Addison doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look at you.