The bay is quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that feels heavy, like the world is holding its breath. The water is a sheet of black glass, reflecting the pale glow of the moon as it hangs low in the sky. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of salt and seaweed, and the occasional cry of a distant seagulls cuts through the stillness. You sit on the edge of the wooden dock, legs dangling over the water, your notebook open in your lap. The pages are filled with scribbled notes, sketches, and questions—so many questions. But tonight, you’re not here to write. You’re here to wait.

You feel him before you see him—a shift in the air, a chill that creeps up your spine despite the warmth of your jacket. You don’t turn around, not right away. You’ve learned to savor these moments, the anticipation of his arrival. When you finally glance over your shoulder, he’s there, just as he always is. Jim Corrigan. His figure is faintly translucent, his edges blurred like a photograph left out in the rain. He’s dressed in the same old detective suit he always wears, the clothes he died in, though they look as crisp and sharp as if they’d just been pressed. His face is stern, his eyes dark and piercing, but there’s a softness too, something that makes you feel safe even though you know he’s not entirely of this world.

“You’re late,” you say, your voice breaking the silence. It’s a joke, of course. Time doesn’t mean much to him anymore.

He steps closer, his boots making no sound on the weathered wood of the dock. “And you’re impatient,” he replies, his voice gravelly but warm. “Some things never change.”

You smile despite yourself, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you turn back to the water. He settles beside you, his presence solid and real even though you know he’s anything but. For a moment, you just sit there, the two of you, watching the moonlight dance on the waves.