E L L A R A

The night hums like a heartbeat beneath glass. Rain taps the shutters above the clinic, soft and uneven, a rhythm that refuses to let me sleep. Somewhere across the island a siren wails once, short and sharp, then dies. The sound should mean nothing, yet the silence that follows feels wrong.

I sit up in the cot, hair loose against my neck, the sheets still damp from the sea air. The clock glows two seventeen. Every nerve in me hums with a restlessness I cannot name. Through the window the boardwalk lights flicker in the mist, the ocean breathing slow and dark against the pilings.

Something unsettled moves through Seraphine tonight. I feel it in the air, in the hush between waves, in the way the gulls have gone quiet.

I pull on my sweater and step into the corridor. The clinic smells faintly of antiseptic and salt. Orchids bow in their vases, their petals trembling with each distant gust. Somewhere in the hallway a child’s cough echoes, soft and lonely.

I follow the sound.

The door to the waiting room stands half open. Lantern light spills through the crack, gold against tile. A small silhouette curls on one of the benches, knees hugged tight, breathing shallow but steady.

He can’t be more than seven. A tangle of curls hides most of his face, and his bare toes peek from under a soaked blanket. Beside him sits a small paper lantern, its candle guttering low inside the thin rice shell. The faint flame paints trembling circles across his cheek.

“Hey,” I whisper, crouching beside him. “You’re up late.”

He startles, then blinks at me through lashes heavy with sleep. “It went out,” he says, pointing to the lantern. “I tried to make it stay bright.”

I take the lantern carefully, shielding the flame with my palm until it steadies. “There. Sometimes it only needs a little help.”

He nods, eyes shiny. “Papa says the sea gets angry if you forget to feed the light.”

“That sounds like a smart papa.” I reach for the blanket’s edge. “You’re shivering. Did you come from the boardwalk?”

He nods again. “Everyone was making wishes. I lost mine.”

His bottom lip trembles, but he keeps still while I check his fingers. Cold but not pale. No cuts, just gooseflesh and damp salt.

“Let’s get you warm,” I say. “Tea or cocoa?”

“Cocoa,” he whispers, voice small as the flicker between us.

Steam curls from the mug when I hand it to him. His hands wrap around it as if heat itself could be held. I watch his shoulders relax, slow and cautious, like trust learning how to breathe again.

The lantern glows on the table between us. The light reminds me of the rescue drills, of the cave, of every night I’ve fought to keep someone’s pulse alive. I think of Adrian then, the way control hardens his voice until it breaks, the way he hides fury beneath polish. Somewhere out there, I can feel him awake too. Restless. Watching the same rain.

“Doctor?” the boy says. “Do you ever make wishes?”

I smile faintly. “Sometimes.”

“What kind?”

“Ones that aren’t mine,” I say after a moment. “For people who forget to make their own.”

He seems to consider that serious in a way only children can be. “Then I’ll make one for you.”

Before I can answer he leans close to the lantern, shielding the flame with both small hands. “Please keep her safe,” he whispers, barely sound at all.

Something catches in my chest. I brush a damp curl from his forehead and pretend it’s only the light that makes my eyes sting. The island may be full of wealth and power, but this, a single child asking the sea to be kind, feels more sacred than any promise I have ever heard.

When he finishes his cocoa, I tuck the blanket around his shoulders. Outside, thunder mutters low over the water. The flame in the lantern sways but refuses to die.

The clinic door clicks softly. A wash of night air slips in, warm and wet with rain. I look up, expecting Ethan or one of the staff, but it is Selene Valcrosse who steps through.

She moves like the tide itself, calm and certain, her white shawl beaded with droplets that glitter in the lantern light. The child blinks at her, wide-eyed. She smiles as if she has known him forever.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asks gently.

He shakes his head. “My lantern went out.”

“Ah,” she says, crouching beside him. “That is a serious problem during Lantern Tide week.”

Her voice is music, smooth enough to soften any fear. The boy grins shyly, then holds up his now-steady flame. “It’s better now. The doctor fixed it.”

Selene’s eyes meet mine. There is warmth there, and understanding that feels older than both of us. “She fixes more than lights.”

I flush and busy myself tidying the empty mug. “You should not be out in this weather.”

She glances toward the rain that whispers against the glass. “I was checking on the docks. Something feels… unsettled tonight.”

The word lands heavy. I think of the siren that woke me, of the stillness that followed.

“Adrian?” I ask quietly.

She hesitates, then nods once. “He is awake, and furious. But that is his language for fear.”

I fold the blanket tighter around the boy. “What happened?”

“Not yet,” she says softly. “He will tell you when he can.”

She studies me for a long moment before adding, “He needs someone who listens to what he does not say.”

The kindness in her voice is gentle enough to ache. “I’m not sure he wants to be understood,” I murmured.

“Then teach him how to want it,” she replies, standing again. Her presence fills the small room with calm, the kind that does not erase pain but holds it steady until it can breathe.

The boy yawns, his small shoulders relaxing under the blanket. Selene brushes his curls aside, her rings flashing in the light. “You did well coming here,” she tells him. “You gave your lantern a second chance.”

He beams, pride warming his face. “The doctor said light just needs help sometimes.”

Selene glances at me. “She was right.”

For a while there is only the sound of rain and the soft tick of the clinic clock. The quiet feels safe until the boy speaks again.

“I saw the man with the black coat,” he says suddenly. “He was talking to the boat guards. They looked scared.”

Selene’s expression changes, so faintly most would miss it. “When was that, sweetheart?”

“Before the lights went funny,” he says. “He had the gold keys.”

My pulse skips. Selene straightens, her shawl sliding from one shoulder. “What did he do with them?”

He frowns, trying to remember. “He said he was helping fix the gates. Then the boats left.”

Selene exhales slowly, smoothing his hair. “You did very well telling us. Keep that between us for now, all right?”

He nods solemnly.

When she meets my eyes, the softness is gone, replaced by something sharp and protective. “Adrian will need to hear that,” she says under her breath.

I lower my voice. “You think this is connected?”

“I think everything is on this island.” She reaches for her shawl again, pulling it tight. “Be careful tonight, Elara. Seraphine is never as peaceful as it looks.”

The boy leans against the bench, drifting toward sleep. I brush the back of my hand across his hair, feeling his small breaths even and warm. Through the window the rain eases, the sea still restless beneath the clouds.

Selene steps toward the door. “He trusts you,” she says softly. “So does my brother, though he will not admit it yet.”

Before I can answer she slips into the corridor, her scent of jasmine and rain fading with her steps. The room feels emptier without her, though the lantern light still holds steady.

The rain fades to a whisper. The boy’s breathing evens, soft and steady. I gather the empty mug and set it aside, then pull a fresh blanket from the shelf and tuck it around him. His curls fall over his eyes again, stubborn as the sea itself.

The clinic smells of cocoa and salt. Lantern light ripples along the walls, gold on white, gentle as a heartbeat. I check the window latches and the hallway lights. Everything feels fragile but held, as if the island is taking one slow breath before dawn.

I sit beside him for a moment longer, listening to the tide drag and sigh beyond the glass. Selene’s words linger. Teach him how to want understanding. The idea feels impossible and yet right. Adrian’s storms are louder than this one, but even storms run out of rage.

When the boy stirs, I whisper, “Sleep, sailor. The sea forgives those who listen.”

He blinks awake just as I start to stand. “Doctor,” he murmurs, voice heavy with dreams. “Wait.”

I crouch beside him again. His small hand fumbles under the blanket and emerges holding the paper lantern. The candle inside still burns, tiny and stubborn.

“For you,” he says. “For luck. So you don’t forget to feed the light.”

My throat tightens. “Thank you,” I whisper, accepting the fragile glow. The wax has melted into a perfect circle, steady and sure.

He smiles once, satisfied, and sinks back into sleep.

I turn the lantern in my hands, the flame reflecting in the glass, doubling itself like a promise. Outside, the clouds are breaking. A sliver of moon glides over the bay, silver threading the dark water.

Somewhere out there Adrian is still awake, chasing shadows across his island. I press my palm to the warm glass and let the light steady me.

The flame flutters, then straightens again, bright against the dark.