She stood at the end of the old pier—windswept hair, a laugh that cut through the fog like a blade. They called her Mira. The locals called the inlet Baycrazy for a reason: the tides shifted without warning, and so did she.
But sometimes, on foggy nights, you can hear two laughs cutting through the dark.
For three weeks, it was wild and wet—midnight swims, salt on skin, promises carved into driftwood. He thought he’d found someone who saw him. Someone real .