Page 68 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
Rowan hands me a folded flyer. It’s printed in neon marker and glitter glue.
“SEA CREATURE SCAVENGER HUNT – BY APPOINTMENT ONLY – NO WHINERS”
Underneath, in Jamie’s handwriting:
1. Tentacle rock
2. Mermaid brush
3. Ghost crab
4. Water dragon pebble (glows in sun)
5. Shell that sings when sad
“You’ve got a camera,” Rowan says. “He thinks that makes you ‘official record-keeper.’”
I glance at the list again. “Shell that sings when sad?”
She shrugs. “He says it hums near moody people.”
“Well,” I mutter, grabbing my gear, “we’re in luck.”
Jamie drags me halfway down the beach before launching into a monologue about monster migration patterns and howthe tides influence their sleep cycles. His enthusiasm is absurd. Infectious. I find myself grinning like a fool, crouched beside him to photograph a shell shaped vaguely like a crescent moon.
“Got it,” I say.
He peers at the viewfinder. “You’re good at this.”
I look at him. At his round cheeks and storm-colored eyes and the way he shoves his hands into his pockets when he’s unsure of himself.
“Thanks, monster boss.”
He beams and points out another “sighting.” This one’s just driftwood, but we pretend it’s a sea serpent spine. He asks me questions—real ones. Not just about monsters. About the world. About what kind of people build boats and what kind of people leave towns behind and why the ocean smells different at night.
I don’t have answers for most of it.
But I try.
Later, we return to the boardwalk, seaweed in our boots and sand caked to our knees. Aeron’s helping Marla re-string lights over the bait shop—his sleeves rolled, brow furrowed, and hands moving with that quiet efficiency that makes him look like part of the town itself.
He sees us and nods. Not dramatic or possessive.
Just… like he sees me.
Jamie tears off toward the docks again, hollering something about “leviathan egg foam” and Rowan follows after him with a laugh that carries like wind chimes on salt air.
I linger near the crab shack.
Alone.
For the first time in hours.
I raise my camera and take a shot—not of the kid, the beach, or some whimsical monster prop.
But ff the horizon. It’s wide and untamed. Not a wall but an invitation.
I lower the lens, and I know something with sudden, fierce clarity:
