Chapter 8 - The Ghost Harbor
Dawn broke as a dull grey smudge over Point Grenville. The smell of brine and decomposing kelp hung heavy in the damp air. Sarah drove down a rutted gravel trail lined with weathered cedar trees until the road ended at a rusting chain-link fence. Beyond it stood Harbor 9—a decaying graveyard of fishing trawlers and rotted piers.
Carrying Lily wrapped in an oversized coat, Sarah walked past rusted winches and discarded lobster traps. The waves crashed violently against the black basalt cliffs below.
""Elias?"" Sarah called out, her voice swallowed by the roaring surf.
No answer came, only the screech of gulls wheeling overhead. She followed a plank path toward a dilapidated boathouse at the edge of the pier. The wooden door stood slightly ajar, swaying with the coastal wind.
Sarah pushed it open. The interior was dark, smelling of motor oil, salt, and stale coffee. On a workbench in the corner lay specialized deep-sea diving gear, several open circuit boards, and a tactical shortwave radio receiver emitting low, rhythmic static.
Lily suddenly gasped, pointing her small finger toward the far shadows beneath an overturned skiff.
May you like
""Daddy hat!"" she cried out.
Sarah’s heart stopped. Sitting atop a rusted metal toolbox was another navy blue trucker cap, soaked in salt spray, alongside a pair of worn work boots Sarah had bought David for his thirty-second birthday.
