Chapter One: The Arrival
The sea smelled different here.
Alina stepped out of the rusted yellow taxi, her boots pressing into the damp gravel as the wind tugged lightly at her coat. She inhaled deeply. The air was cool, raw, salted with the tang of the ocean — and underneath it, the faint scent of wet earth and pine. It was nothing like the city she had left behind.
The driver, a quiet old man, gave her a brief nod as he set her lone suitcase on the ground beside her. Without a word, he returned to his car and drove off, tires crunching over the narrow road before disappearing into the fog that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction.
She stood still for a moment, letting the silence seep into her bones.
Before her stood the cottage she’d rented online — a weathered white structure with a slanted red roof, slightly leaning as though tired of holding itself up. The wooden sign over the porch creaked with the wind: Cliffside Haven.
It looked old. Slightly forgotten.
Perfect.
Alina pulled her suitcase up the three wooden steps and pushed open the front door. The interior was sparse but cozy — wooden floors, soft lighting, an old fireplace, and a small writing desk facing a window. The kind of place that felt untouched by time.
She dropped her bag with a quiet sigh. This was where she would start again.
Where she would try to remember how to feel whole.
---
The day passed slowly.
She unpacked with care, placing her sketchbooks and journals on the desk, her typewriter in the center like a prized relic. Each item had made the journey with her — anchors to her past life. Photographs, however, remained tucked away in her suitcase.
Outside, the fog began to thicken, curling around the trees like ghostly arms.
By dusk, it had swallowed the landscape completely. The cliffs, the sea, even the sky — gone, as though the world had vanished and left her suspended in a dream.
Drawn to the window, Alina sat with a warm cup of tea in her hands. The silence was almost unnerving. No voices, no traffic, not even birdsong. Just the soft crackle of the fireplace and the occasional whisper of wind.
And then she saw him.
A lone figure, standing at the very edge of the cliff path.
He was tall, wearing a long, dark coat that swayed slightly with the breeze. His face was turned away, facing the sea — or what lay beyond it. The fog clung to him like a veil, making his silhouette appear blurred, almost unreal.
Alina leaned forward.
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He looked like part of the landscape — like he had always been there.
Minutes passed.
Then, without warning, he turned slightly and began walking… straight into the fog.
No hesitation. No glance back. Within seconds, he disappeared.
Alina blinked, unsure if she had imagined the whole thing.
---
That night, the image of him stayed with her.
She tossed and turned in bed, her mind replaying the moment. Who was he? A local? A tourist? But there weren’t any tourists here. That’s what had drawn her to Daryaabad — its quiet anonymity, its untouched silence.
She finally got out of bed and returned to the writing desk. The old typewriter waited like a trusted friend.
She rolled in a blank page.
> “He came with the fog. Wordless, nameless, untouchable. And yet… he was the only thing that felt real.”
The words flowed before she could stop them.
Was she writing fiction?
Or was this how healing began — by turning what she couldn't explain into something beautiful?
For the first time in months, her fingers danced across the keys.
---
The next morning, Alina stood at the same window, her cup of tea steaming in her hands.
The fog was still there.
Still thick. Still silent.
But the cliff was empty.
No man. No coat. No shadow.
Only fog.
But somehow, she knew he had been real.
And something told her... he would return.
------
Later that day, she wandered through the nearby cliffs, following the same path where she had seen him last. The fog wasn’t as thick in the daylight, but it still held that strange, otherworldly feel — like it knew secrets it refused to share.
The sea stretched endlessly, silver and soft, crashing gently against the rocks below. A row of benches lined the edge of the cliff, all empty.
She sat on the last one.
For a long while, she watched the waves. Let them drown her thoughts.
The sea whispered softly beneath the cliffs as Alina wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and sat on the worn wooden bench, the chill of the wind brushing against her skin. The fog had returned like a curtain drawn over the world — thick, heavy, and pale like milk.
Her gaze wandered over the blurry horizon until it landed on him.
There he was again.
Just standing a few feet away, near the crooked tree that leaned dangerously toward the cliff’s edge. His dark coat blended into the shadows of the fog, and the outline of his face was barely visible. Yet, he was unmistakably watching her.
No words were exchanged.
No movement, no sound.
Only his gaze.
It wasn't cold… but it wasn’t warm either. His presence felt like a dream she couldn’t wake up from.
And then, as the wind grew stronger, a sudden gust howled past her — the fog curled violently, blinding her for a heartbeat — and when it cleared…
He was gone.
Alina jerked up from the bench, startled, her heartbeat thudding like thunder. She scanned the cliff, the pathway, behind the tree. Nothing.
“Hello?” she called out hesitantly, stepping forward into the mist.
No reply. Only silence and the sound of waves crashing far below.
She turned in every direction, walking in circles, hoping for some trace of him — footprints, movement, a voice — but the fog only thickened, curling tighter around her like a warning.
Unease gripped her chest.
What had she just seen? Who was he?
With her breath quickening and fear curling in her stomach, Alina turned back and hurried toward the cottage. Her hands were shaking when she closed the door behind her.
That night was restless.
She sat at her writing desk, staring at the blank page in her typewriter. Her fingers hovered, waiting for the words to come… but they didn’t.
She wanted to write about him — the man in the fog — but something held her back. Something inside her chest clenched tightly, refusing to release whatever truth hovered at the edge of her thoughts.
She tried again.
Typed a line.
Deleted it.
Another.
Crumpled the page.
Again and again.
Frustration built inside her like a slow storm. “I came here for peace,” she muttered to herself. “Not to lose my mind.”
Shaking her head, she walked to the small kitchen and made herself some instant noodles and coffee — the comfort combo from her college days. She brought it back to the living room, turned on the old TV, and curled up on the couch, the soft buzz of some romantic drama playing in the background.
But her eyes kept drifting to the window.
The fog outside had grown even denser.
She could barely see the road anymore.
Then—something shifted.
Her heart skipped.
A dark shape… no, a figure… slowly emerged from the whiteness.
He was there.
Again.
Right in front of her cottage, standing in the middle of the road, a heavy coat wrapped around him and the hood pulled over his head. He wasn’t moving. Just… standing.
Facing her.
Watching her.
Like before.
The scene was unreal — haunting and beautiful in the same breath.
He stood completely still, his posture rigid, as if fighting against the biting wind — like he was punishing himself to be out in this weather. His presence made her breath hitch. Was he a ghost? A figment of her imagination? Or worse… was he real?
A stalker?
Or someone broken, like her?
Alina didn’t think. She just moved.
She grabbed her coat, pulled it over her pajamas, threw on her boots, and wrapped her shawl hastily around her shoulders. Her heart thudded in her ears as she stepped out into the cold night, breath misting in front of her.
The fog stung her eyes.
She ran toward the road.
But…
It was empty.
The man was gone.
Not a sound. Not a shadow. Not even a footprint to prove he had been there.
Just the same white fog swallowing the night.
Alina stood there, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she looked around in disbelief.
She wasn’t sure what scared her more — the idea that he was real…
Or that she was imagining everything.
