Evelyn, after her mother’s revelation, hadn’t wasted a single second. The shock had stolen her sleep, driving her to pace through the night, restless, mapping out every step of the journey ahead.

  She had no idea where the Island of the Moon was, nor how to even reach the port city of Saleen, where she was supposed to find Mr. Sean and Mrs. Brenda. To make matters worse, she didn’t even know their last names.

  “It all feels so unreal,” she murmured, staring at the open laptop on the table. “But it’s too late to back out now. I have to see this through.”

  After hours of digging online, she finally stumbled across the port of Saleen. She let out a shaky breath of relief when she discovered it was in Ireland.

  At least I don’t have to cross half the world, she thought, almost comforted. Ireland is close, no visas, and no complicated permits.

  But when it came to the Island of the Moon, she found nothing. No maps, no mentions. Only emptiness.

  I’ll figure it out once I get there, she told herself, trying to silence the doubts swirling in her head. “First I need to find Sean and Brenda. They’ll know what to do,” she whispered, snapping the laptop shut with a decisive motion.

  She booked the first flight out of Rome for the next morning. Then she wrote a letter to her neighbor, Pina, asking her to take care of the house and telling her where the keys would be. Right after, she sent a message to her publisher, explaining she had to leave on short notice and attaching the freshly finished manuscript.

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to visit some distant relatives. A short break will do me good. I won’t be taking my phone, but I’ll reach out as soon as I can.”

  She closed the message with the same line for both recipients, convincing enough to avoid suspicion. She didn’t mention how long she’d be gone, truth was, she had no idea herself.

  She packed light, just a small backpack with the absolute essentials. Whatever lay ahead, she was sure traveling this way was the smartest choice.

  At dawn, she allowed herself one last moment of meditation. Closing her eyes, she focused on Leyla. As always, she hoped to feel her presence, to catch some sign, some trace. But once again, there was nothing.

  What Evelyn didn’t know was that, even if she couldn’t reach Leyla through telepathy, her daughter could still pick up on her messages in dreams and, in her limited way, draw strength from them.

  At exactly noon, the plane touched down in Dublin. Evelyn wasted no time. With no checked luggage to slow her down, she headed straight for the exit, following the signs to the bus stop for Saleen.

  She boarded the first bus out, no clear destination in mind except the pull she felt deep inside.

  The sharp bite of diesel hung in the air, mingling with the dampness of the Irish coast. The bus groaned along the winding seaside road while Evelyn gazed out at the ever-changing coastline.

  After about an hour, she reached the village’s quaint harbor. Saleen looked like it had been lifted straight from a postcard, a fishing town with stone cottages and brightly painted boats bobbing gently on the water. The air was rich with salt, and the steady rhythm of waves crashing against the rocks carried a hypnotic lull.

  I’ll find Sean and Brenda if I just ask around, she told herself, clinging to hope. They have to be here somewhere.

  She picked the first hotel she came across on the main road. After checking in, she went up to her room to drop off her backpack and freshen up.

  “I’d love nothing more than to lie down and rest, this isn’t the time. I need to add at least one more piece to this puzzle,” she said out loud, as if speaking the words might give her strength.

  Back at the front desk, she asked if there was a pub nearby where she could grab a beer and maybe strike up a chat with some locals. The receptionist, a woman with ash-blond hair and a warm smile, pointed her toward The Salty Anchor, calling it the heart of Saleen.

  Following the directions, Evelyn strolled down the lane leading to the small harbor. The wind whipped through her hair, and the smell of salt and fresh fish reminded her how far she’d come from home.

  This has to be the place.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  She paused just outside the door. From inside came the muffled mix of laughter and clinking glasses, and every time the heavy wooden door swung open, a draft of smoke and stale beer spilled out onto the street. Pulling her jacket tighter around her chilled body, Evelyn stepped up to the entrance with a flicker of hesitation.

  The dim light forced her eyes to adjust as soon as she crossed the threshold. She turned slowly, taking in the scene.

  The place was pure old-school charm: a dark wooden bar polished smooth by years of elbows and spilled drinks, tall stools with worn-out seats, walls lined with black-and-white photos, fishing gear, and dust-covered bottles. A fire snapped in the hearth, throwing dancing shadows across the solid oak tables where clusters of regulars talked over each other with lively banter.

  Evelyn was immediately wrapped in an almost homelike warmth, and yet, beneath that welcoming haze, she couldn’t shake a subtle sense of being out of place. Why do I feel so out of place? she wondered, catching the curious glances of patrons who turned just enough to size her up. Each look was a reminder she was an outsider.

  She pulled her shoulders in slightly, as if to shield herself from that feeling of distance and made her way to the bar with a hesitant step. The bartender, a broad-shouldered man with a graying beard and a kind eyes, greeted her with a nod, and for a moment Evelyn felt a little less like an outsider.

  “A beer, please,” she said, doing her best to sound casual.

  While she waited, her eyes wandered over the crowd: old men with weathered faces, their stories punctuated by sweeping gestures; young fishermen laughing loud and carefree; the occasional tourist, equally enchanted by the bar’s atmosphere. In the corner, she noticed an old man in a wool cap and a heavy sweater, someone who looked like he carried the whole village’s secrets in his silence.

  Beer in hand, she headed for his table.

  “Excuse me,” Evelyn said firmly, doing her best to sound confident. “I’m looking for two people, Mr. Sean and Mrs. Brenda. Do you know where I might find them?”

  The old man studied her for a moment, his blue eyes seeming to look straight through her. Then he gave a slow shake of his head.

  “Sean and Brenda, huh? If they’re who I think, they live near the lighthouse, all the way at the end of the pier. Haven’t seen ’em in a while, though.”

  Evelyn nodded, thanking him with a small tilt of her head. She took another sip of beer, then slipped out, driven by impatience and a mix of excitement and nerves.

  Her heart pounded as she walked down the pier. The cold wind lashed her face, and the crash of waves against the rocks matched the rhythm of her steps.

  At last, she stood before the house the old man had described: a modest place with a slate roof and a window glowing with soft light. A weathered wooden fence, bleached by salt air, framed a garden where wildflowers swayed in the breeze. Evelyn paused to steady her breath, then rang the bell at the gate.

  After a few seconds, the door creaked open just enough to reveal a woman in her fifties, apron tied around her waist, her expression edged with mild irritation.

  “If you’re looking for Sean and Brenda, they’re not home. They’re out of town and won’t be back until tomorrow night,” the woman said right away, anticipating any question, her tone quick and practiced, like someone who’d already repeated that line half a dozen times today.

  “Not until tomorrow night?” Evelyn frowned, a wave of disappointment tightening her chest.

  “That’s right, sorry,” the woman confirmed, closing the door gently.

  Evelyn knew she had no choice but to wait. She nodded and stepped back, trying to hide the tension those words stirred.

  On her way back, she figured it would be better to head back to the pub, kill some time, and distract herself.

  When she walked in again, most of the remaining patrons were older folks. This time, more than one gave her a polite nod of acknowledgment. She felt a little less like a stranger than when she’d first arrived. The bartender, warm smile in place, slid a beer her way and gestured to the stool across from him. The pub’s easygoing atmosphere wrapped around her, offering her a fleeting but welcome comfort.

  Between sips, she let herself get drawn into the chatter of her new “friends,” eventually accepting their invitation to join a table. Even with her mind elsewhere, she didn’t want to seem rude, so she traded a few words about the town’s charm. Then, almost without thinking, she asked:

  “I’d love to visit the Island of the Moon. Do you know how I can get there?”

  The reaction hit her like a wave, sudden laughter erupting around the room, bouncing off the walls, leaving her startled and confused.

  “What? What did I say that’s so ridiculous?” Evelyn asked, taken aback.

  The more puzzled her face became, the louder the chuckles grew, until the pub owner finally stepped in to calm things down.

  Seated next to her, a weathered old sailor with a wool cap pulled low over his brow leaned closer, an indulgent smile tugging at his lips.

  “I hope you don’t take offense,” the sailor said. “You see, the Island of the Moon is wrapped in legend. Folks say it vanished around the year 1000. According to the tale, after a brutal invasion and the slaughter of its people, Neptune, god of the sea, enraged by such cruelty, dragged the island down into the depths of the ocean, taking the triumphant invaders with it. From that day on, no one’s ever seen it again.”

  He paused, studying her closely. “You all right, miss? You’ve got the look of someone who just saw a ghost.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for sharing that… story. But I think it’s time I head out,” Evelyn replied, averting his gaze. She tried to cover her unease with a forced smile, then stood, murmuring something about being tired as she excused herself.

  Once outside, the sea breeze cooled her skin, but it couldn’t calm the turmoil boiling inside her.

  Why this story? It can’t be true. The island has to exist. My mother couldn’t have been wrong. Not her.

  The old man’s tale refused to let her rest. She walked with unsteady steps, her heart heavy. Lost in a storm of doubt, she searched for a quiet corner. With eyes darting and shoulders hunched, she made sure no one was watching before she collapsed into a desperate sob, tears carving hot paths down her cheeks, stripping away the last scrap of strength she had left.

  Everything she believed, every hope tied to her gift and the chance of reaching Leyla again, seemed to crumble under the weight of an ancient legend. The pain hit like a sudden wave, stealing her breath.

  And in that moment of raw vulnerability, Evelyn realized: she would have to fight harder than she had ever dared to imagine.

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