Chapter 7 - The Final Breath of the Coast
The SUV pulled off the paved highway onto a rough, rutted dirt track that wound down through dark pine woods toward the jagged coastal cliffs of Blackwood Point.
At the edge of the cliff, framed against the raging dark ocean and the sweeping red beam of a distant, decommissioned lighthouse, stood a small, weathered wooden fisherman’s cabin. Smoke no longer rose from its stone chimney. The roof shingles were moss-covered and broken, and the small front porch groaned under the assault of the gale-force wind.
Marcus brought the SUV to a halt fifty yards away, keeping the powerful LED headlights focused on the cabin's front door.
Victoria stepped out into the pouring rain, wrapping her wool coat tightly over her emerald gown. She carried Charlotte in her arms, shielding the child’s head under her coat as they walked up the slippery wooden porch steps.
Marcus pushed the warped oak door open, his flashlight beam sweeping across the interior of the cabin.
The room was humble, cold, and meticulously clean despite the poverty evident in every corner. Hand-drawn children’s sketches of sea birds were pinned to the unpainted wooden walls. A small wood stove sat cold in the corner beside a stack of damp firewood.
In the center of the room stood a iron bed frame covered in hand-stitched wool quilts.
Lying upon the bed was a young woman.
Victoria walked toward the bed as if moving through a dream. Her shoes sounded dull against the wooden floorboards. She dropped to her knees beside the mattress, setting Charlotte down gently on the floor.
The woman on the bed was thirty-two years old, frail, emaciated by long illness, her skin pale as marble under the flashlight beam. But her dark, wavy hair, high cheekbones, and delicate hands were unmistakably, unquestionably Victoria’s own features mirrored across time.
"Sarah..." Victoria whispered, reaching out a trembling, manicured hand to press her palm against her daughter's cold, silent cheek.
A single, frozen tear rested on Sarah’s cheekbone. On the small wooden nightstand beside her bed lay a worn leather journal, open to the final page, written in a clear, delicate hand:
November 14 — My lungs are failing. I know I will not survive the storm tonight. My only regret is that I never got to see my mother's face again... to ask her why she left me in the care of the village church... why she never came back for me. But I have given Charlotte the watch. I pray to God my mother remembers the crescent moon.
May you like
Victoria let out a shattering, agonizing wail that drowned out the sound of the wind outside. She collapsed over her daughter's body, weeping hysterically, clutching Sarah’s cold, lifeless hands against her face, begging for a forgiveness she knew she could never verbally receive.
Charlotte knelt beside Victoria, wrapping her tiny arms around her grandmother's waist, resting her head against Victoria’s trembling back as the rain hammered against the cabin roof.
