After my father passed away, grief consumed me. He had been my anchor—his laughter, his quiet wisdom, the way he made breakfast every Sunday. I needed space to breathe, to mourn, to remember. So I rented a beach house he used to visit alone, a place he’d always promised we’d go together. It felt like the closest I could get to him now.
The house was peaceful, nestled by the sea, surrounded by flowers he might’ve planted himself. But the moment I arrived, something felt off. The owner, a man named Sora, greeted me with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You must be Kate,” he said, before I’d even introduced myself.
At first, I brushed it off. Maybe he’d seen my booking details. But as the days passed, Sora’s knowledge about me grew unsettling. He mentioned my childhood nickname, my favorite book, even the lullaby my father used to sing. I never told him any of this.
I started to wonder—had my father shared these things with him? Were they close? But Sora’s answers were vague, evasive. “Your father was a good man,” he’d say, “He left pieces of himself here.”
One night, I found an old journal tucked behind a bookshelf. It wasn’t my father’s—but it mentioned him. And me. Pages filled with observations, memories, even predictions. My blood ran cold. Who was this man? Why did he know so much?
I confronted Sora. He didn’t deny it. “Your father came here often. He talked about you. He wanted you to come here someday. He said you’d need it.”
“But how do you know all this?” I asked.
He looked at me, eyes heavy with something I couldn’t name. “Because I listened. And because I cared.”
It was terrifying—and strangely comforting. In his own way, Sora had preserved my father’s memory. The house wasn’t just a retreat; it was a shrine. A place where grief met remembrance. Where the past whispered through the walls.
I left the beach house changed. Still grieving, but no longer alone. My father had left me a final gift: a place where his love lingered, and where even strangers could remind me of who I was—and who I’d loved.
