Marta salted her doorstep. Others hung charms of driftwood and rope knots, little talismans against whatever lurked below. By midweek, fewer boats were leaving the harbor at all. Nets hung limp on the docks, drying uselessly in the sun.
Erik tried to scoff at their superstitions, even force a laugh, but it rang hollow. Because the truth was, he couldn’t stop thinking about that night. Not the panic, not even the jeers that had followed—those faded. What stayed with him was the sound.