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Summary
Years later, Charles would remember the storm as a living thing, a presence that pressed against the farmhouse walls and threaded its way into his sleep.
He couldn’t remember what had woken him first: the rattling windows, the groan of the old beams, or simply a feeling that something in the night had shifted.
But he remembered the knock. A sound that didn’t belong to wind or rain.
He could still see the slice of yellow lamplight spilling across the hallway as his mother opened the door, and the shape standing on the threshold - soaked through, shivering, eyes wide with a fear he hadn’t yet learned to name.
Pierre.
Seventeen, but somehow younger in that moment. Rain streaming down his face, breath coming in sharp bursts as if he’d run the whole way from the station. Maybe he had.
“Fishing boat’s gone down in The Sound. They’ve launched both boats.”