Arriving in Sierra Verde around 1 PM, I found myself standing before my grandmother's weathered cottage, a one story bungalow nestled on the edge of Fiore De Mare.

This coastal enclave, cradled along the rugged coastline of East Ambridge's peninsula, felt like a wooden door to a bygone era. The air carried the timeless scent of salt mingled with the sweet fragrance of cypress trees and wildflowers, enveloping me in a warm embrace.

For the first time in 20 years, I was home.

As you enter the town, the first thing you notice is the architecture. Quaint cottages with thatched roofs and stone chimneys line the streets, their colorful facades framed by cascades of vibrant bougainvillea and lush, tangled vines. Each cottage seems to have its own story to tell.

My grandma's cottage is no different.

Legend has it that her cottage was the creation of a reclusive artist who sought solace and inspiration in the beauty of Fiore De Mare. The locals called her "The Blue Madame".

The Blue Madame roamed the coastline with her sketchbook as her sole companion, capturing the sea in vibrant paintings. As her connection to the land deepened, she yearned for a retreat from the world, a place to lose herself in her art, and so, she built her dream cottage from the very materials that washed ashore.

But time's arrow stopped for no one.

And as it continued to march on, The Blue Madame became increasingly isolated, her bond with the modern world fading with each passing day. Until one day, she vanished without a trace, leaving behind only her beloved cottage and a legacy whispered on the sea breeze.

Nobody knows what really happened to her. But standing here, I can't help but wonder if she succumbed to the lull of the waves and disappeared into the sea.

Walking through the cobble stone pathway brought back old memories with each step, the echoes of laughter and the scent of sea salt weaving through the air. The once-vibrant paint of my grandmother's veranda had weathered with time, its front yard, once filled with flowers and butterflies now overgrown with weeds.

Inside, the house, the air was stale and thick with dust. Faded photographs adorned the walls, a gallery of my family's past. There's one photo in particular that's especially dear to me. It's a photo of me as a newborn cradled in my mom's arms. Even then, a connection existed, I thought, a bond strong enough to transcend death and logic. It's strange to think that I'm able to miss someone I only have a vague memory of.

With a sense of purpose, I move through the rooms, fingertips tracing the familiar contours of forgotten treasures. My grandma's room gave way to the one I once shared with my sister. Rummaging through a dusty drawer, I unearth a haul of memories: old photo albums, my high school yearbook (courtesy of a thoughtful mailing from Dad) and a binder overflowing with movie CDs. Finding Nemo on Blu-ray and Shrek were childhood favorites. Music CDs joined the pile: Alanis Morissette, most likely from Dad's younger days, and a band called "Sogyumo Acacia Band" with their self-titled album. An old radio with a CD and cassette player sat atop the drawer, a forgotten staple of past entertainment.

As I sift through the dusty relics, a wave of memories envelop me. Memories of childhood summers came flooding back. Lazy days by the sea, Grandma's wrinkled smile, Dad's warm gaze, and my younger sister Mickey's infectious laughter echo in my mind. The salt-tinged air lingers in the quiet room I found myself in.

Suddenly, I had a difficult decision to make. Alanis Morisette or some Acacia band I've never heard of? Always open to new music, I pop open the CD player, slip in one of Dad's discs, and let the music fill the room as I delved into the pages of my yearbook.

아주 많이 빨리 달릴 때

When you run very fast,

이제 마지막이라고 여길 때

when you consider it is the end now,

또는 모든 것이 처음 같을 때

and in another way, when you felt everything felt new,
가장 쉬운 말로 건넬

the easiest words to pass

얘기를 할 때 누군가를 잊지

when you talk to someone, you lose someone

As the first few notes reverberated from the guitar strings, their resonance seemed to seep into my very being. A welcome intrusion. What a pleasant surprise. I thought, feeling a flicker of warmth despite my dad's usual aloofness. His taste in music never fails to impress, even if he does sometimes.

Sifting through the pages of my yearbook, I laughed at the familiar faces and the memories they triggered. Each turn of the page unearthed long-forgotten names and faces. "Brandon Aguinaldo," I muttered, a spark of recognition lighting up my eyes. His senior quote read: "If a tree falls on your ex in the forest and no one's there to hear it, you should still hide the axe just in case." I snorted. Typical Brandon.

Then his face popped into my mind.

Casey.

I wonder what his quote had been. I didn't remember reading it last time.

I skip  through the pages, searching for his portrait. The yellowed pages blurred as I scanned for the Ts: Toni Tang, Jada Thompson, Arthur Trent. Someone was missing. The familiar names only confirmed his absence. A cold dread coiled in my stomach, squeezing the air from my lungs.

He should be here somewhere.

I scanned the column frantically. No goofy grin. No cheesy quote. Just an empty space where Casey Tran should have been.

Did Casey skip the senior portraits?

No, he wouldn't do that.

But if he did...

Then the rumors might be true.

But why?

Closing the yearbook with a soft thud, I sink onto the edge of the bed, memories drifting back eight years.

I try to picture the first time I met Casey Tran.

The fluorescent lights. The smell of dry erase markers and stale coffee. Mrs. Oda's voice that seemed to drone on endlessly. Sophomore year of high school. AP Psych. It wasn't exactly a class that inspired wide-eyed engagement, but for me, it was a sanctuary. Here, amidst the droning lectures about the id, ego, and superego, my mind could wander freely through fantastical landscapes.

A soft thud on my desk startled me out of my daydream. A crumpled piece of paper lay there, a beacon in the sea of textbooks. With a hesitant hand, I unfolded it, and a smile tugged at the corner of my lips. A cartoon brain with giant googly eyes, a mischievous grin plastered across its wrinkled surface, stared back at me.

I scanned the classroom, searching for the culprit. A movement near the window caught my eye. A guy with a mop of brown hair that defied gravity stood there, backlit by the afternoon sun. He was surrounded by a group of friends, a lively debate erupting amongst them. But his gaze was fixed on me, a playful glint in his eyes. With a casual grace, he practically vaulted over the desk and landed with a soft thud next to me. His worn gorillaz t-shirt peeked out from under his unbuttoned flannel jacket.

"Couldn't take the Neuroanatomy lecture either, huh?" he whispered, his voice a warm rumble that sent a shiver down my spine. For the first time that day, I felt a flicker of genuine interest replace the dull ache of loneliness that had become a constant companion since my first day of highschool.

"Uh, yeah," I stammered back, suddenly hyperaware of the hole in my jeans and the worn out converse I'd worn in a rush that morning. "Just listening to her makes the lobes of my brain hurt."

He chuckled, a rich, contagious sound that warmed the stale air of the classroom. "Parietal or temporal?"

"Every lobe." I blurted out. "All the lobes."

We spent the rest of the class doodling back and forth on the crumpled piece of paper, the cartoon brain morphing into a superhero battling a grumpy-looking id.

Casey, with his easy confidence and playful humor, was everything I wasn't—popular, effortlessly cool, the center of attention. Yet, in that moment, he extended a hand, a silent invitation into his world. A flicker of hope ignited in my chest. A year before, I'd been a total outcast—fresh off the bus from a small town, friendless and awkward. Casey was my lifeline in that sea of unfamiliar faces.

Slowly, I started tagging along with Casey and his group—Dylan Wang and Brandon Aguinaldo, the resident weebs; Sara Park, the captain of the girls' basketball team; and James Yoo, a friend of a friend who walked into my life like a plot twist from a cheesy teen drama. Two years older, tall with a charming smile, he was born a day after me, making us Scorpios—twin flames, destiny whispered. Oh, it was a flame alright. A flame that consumed and burnt me out.

James Yoo. Formerly the love of my life, now the bane of my existence. Charming at first, his need for attention morphed into suffocating possessiveness. He'd call constantly, his voice dripping with suspicion if I didn't pick up immediately. Plans with friends became a minefield, each hangout ending with a silent accusation in his eyes.

Despite the growing unease, I naively clung to the hope of being his anchor. I became his therapist, cheerleader, and maid, untangling his family drama, writing his college essays, even cleaning his room on Saturdays—while my own life drifted away.

We were on and off for four years until I cut off contact three months ago. I should have done it sooner, but the longer you stay in a burning house, the more you forget what safety feels like. 

The cost was steep: lost friendships, abandoned dreams, and emotional scars that still haven't healed. Somewhere along the way, I stopped talking to Casey. Last I heard, his parents divorced during junior year, and he stopped hanging out with us. By senior year, he was gone. Rumors said he moved or dropped out. Nobody knew.

Wherever he is, I hope—

I cut off that thought. No, I know he's okay.

I sigh. The music continues to weave its spell, the comforting lyrics filling the room. I close my eyes, letting the sound envelop me. I can almost hear the gentle lapping of the waves outside, the call of the sea a soothing lullaby.