I managed to get dressed in the morning in spite of my near-catatonic state brought on by my night of pacing and thinking. The bags under my eyes were large as potato sacks, so I pulled my mouldy hat down low over my forehead. As I made ready to leave the cabin, I noticed my coat was buttoned unevenly, giving me a lopsided and slovenly sort of look. With my walk down to town imminent, I decided I could not spare the energy and would simply have to look a bit more homeless than usual. With my lack of shaving equipment at the cabin, and the tendency of my beard to grow in gray tufts like moss on boulders, the homeless look was only amplified. With no one to listen, I grumbled to my reflection in the greasy window by the cottage’s door. Talking to myself was a habit I picked up slowly during my time living on the channel. Slowly but surely.

It was something close to a miracle that I made it down from the bluffs and into a chair at Anabel’s without falling and killing myself, but it happened. The ruddy face and kind smile I liked so much hovered over me and poured my first cup into the mug for me. As I took my first sips, Anabel sat down across from me.

“How’s my favorite customer?”

“I’ve been better, Anabel. I’ve been better.”

“You look as if you haven’t slept a wink.”

“Am I that obvious?” I asked, though I knew full-well exactly what I looked like.

“I expect you’re making good progress on your book then. All those sleepless nights.”

I tried to smile at my friend and hoped that it didn’t look more like a grimace.

“Yeah,” I said, taking another sip of her delightful brew. “What do you put in this coffee to make it so good?”

Her broad smile, which showed her crooked but somehow still endearing teeth told me that my change of subject had been successful. For a reason I had not yet come to terms with, I no longer wanted to publicly discuss my writing project unless I absolutely had to.

“You know I can’t go telling you that, even if you’re my hero.”

She patted me on the back and re-tied her apron around her ample waist before bustling back to the kitchen where someone, probably that awful young waitress, was making a god-awful racket.

I finished my coffee leisurely, filling my cup from the carafe each time it was empty, but never before. There was a tingling in my fingers and a warmth in my chest that told me I was finally coming to life for the day. I knew it was caffeine-fueled, and sure to be short-lived, so it was time to get rowing.

It was a nice day on the channel, which is to say it was overcast and the wind was not particularly biting. The waves were gentle and lapped at the sides of my boat as I rowed out towards the dock with the red light. When the house came into view, I made sure the prow was facing the right way and closed my eyes. I let the rhythm of rowing take over and before long I opened my eyes to find that if I didn’t slow down I’d crash into the dock rather than gently bump up against it. I used one oar as a makeshift rudder and used my remaining momentum to slide towards the dock. As my boat bobbed into its oceanic parking spot, my gaze drifted upwards to the house. At first glance, I saw the row of fir trees, the family burial plot which so distressed me on my first visit, and the curious, steel door on the back of the house. The last thing which drew my eye was an upper floor window. Having been inside the house, I knew that most rooms contained nothing more than excess furniture and dust, but what greeted me from the window was neither of those mundane things. I saw a pale face framed by long, black hair.

And then it was gone. Dearest reader, I tied my boat to the dock while continually casting my eyes back up to that window, as if the element of surprise would scare the ghostly face back into view. But it did not appear. It was not the face of my landlord, nor Riven. I could not say with certainty that it was a woman or a girl, but it certainly wasn’t either of the two residents of the house that I knew of. With a last look at my boat and the red light, I made my way up the path, through the tunnel of fir trees and to the front steps.