The morning tide had always been generous to the quiet coastal town of Merrenport—shells the size of fists, driftwood twisted into sculptures, even the occasional message in a bottle that sparked gossip for days. But nothing like what came in that fog-drenched morning in early September.

It began with the typewriter.

An old, barnacle-encrusted Underwood, keys locked in place by rust, sat partially buried at the edge of the shoreline. Molly Harris, who jogged the beach at dawn with her spaniel, nearly tripped over it. She bent to inspect it, muttering, “What in the hell…” Her fingers brushed the surface, and for a moment, she could have sworn it was warm. Like a living thing.

Later that day, the town’s Facebook group was alight with photos. Any writers lose this? Or did Poseidon take up poetry? someone quipped. But the joking stopped when other things began to appear.

The second item was a doll—Victorian, with glass eyes that followed you a little too well. It was found by the lighthouse, nestled between jagged rocks, its porcelain face uncracked despite the violent surf. The mayor’s son, Aaron, who found it, claimed it whispered his name as he picked it up. No one believed him until he stopped speaking altogether.

Then came the compass.

Sheriff Delaney found it during a low-tide patrol. Its brass casing shone as if newly polished, its needle spinning wildly no matter which way he turned. When he tried to leave the beach, he couldn’t—every step led him back to where he started. He only got free by tossing the compass into the sea. That night, the waves returned it, placing it gently on his porch.

The town began to change.

Fog rolled in and never quite lifted. Birds flew inland in frantic flocks. Radios picked up voices speaking in dead languages. The sea no longer smelled of salt and brine, but of old paper, candle wax, and something metallic.

Molly, obsessed since the day she found the typewriter, noticed a pattern. The tide brought in one item each day. Each was strange. Each belonged, somehow, to someone in town—a forgotten heirloom, a lost childhood treasure, a dream once had and then forgotten.

When the mirror washed ashore, things turned.

It was oval, framed in tarnished silver, and no one could see their reflection in it—only memories they had tried to bury. Bethany Pierce saw her brother, drowning. Elijah Crane saw fire, and a locked door. Molly saw herself typing on the Underwood, her hands moving even though she felt paralyzed.

Then came the final item: a book.

It was leather-bound and completely dry. Its title was *“The Last Tide.”* The pages inside were filled with detailed, minute handwriting… recording everything that had happened in Merrenport over the last ten days.

Including things no one had told anyone.

In the final chapter, written in the same looping hand, it said:

“Tonight, the tide takes back what it gave.”

That night, the fog turned black.

When dawn came, the town of Merrenport was empty. Homes still stood. Lights still flickered. But there were no people. Only footprints in the sand… all leading to the water.

And the book, waiting on the shore, with one final sentence scribbled at the bottom:

“The sea remembers what we forget.”