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The nightstand clock glowed 3:07 AM,its luminescent digits a beacon in the shadowy room, grounding her back toreality. Her hand fumbled for the switch of the bedside lamp, and the lightbathed the room in a warm, golden hue, chasing away the vestiges of hernightmare.
"Only a dream," Charlottemurmured to herself, her voice barely audible above the distant thud of wavesagainst the shore. The familiar sound should have comforted her, yet it onlyserved as a bitter reminder of her father's departure, the echoes of whichreverberated through her sleep-shrouded mind.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herpulse to slow, inhaling the salty tang of sea air that crept through thepartially opened window. It mingled with the faint scent of oil paints, a clueas to the countless hours spent at her easel, seeking solace in the strokes ofher brush—a healing she desperately craved.
Charlotte exhaled deeply, her bodysinking into the mattress as she fought to dispel the lingering dread thatclutched at her. She needed rest. The daylight would bring the ceaseless tasksof new guests. But as the minutes ticked by, sleep remained elusive, justbeyond reach.
Rising from the tangle of sheets,Charlotte's feet met the cool wooden floor with silent trepidation. The specterof her nightmare seemed to cling to her like a second skin as she padded softlythrough the moonlit corridors of The Old Crown Inn. Her hands, usually steadyand sure as they caressed the contours of her canvas, now trembled as shereached for the reassuring solidity of the kitchen door.
The hinges gave a muted creak, morefelt than heard, as she slipped inside. She flicked on a small lamp, casting awarm glow across the stone countertops, and glanced through the window wheremoonlight danced upon the sea's surface. The kitchen, normally a haven, feltstrangely foreign in the nocturnal hush. With fumbling fingers, she filled aglass with water from the tap, its gentle burble a quiet symphony in theenveloping stillness.
She drank deeply, but the water didlittle to soothe the parched feeling in her throat or the residual unease thatthrummed through her veins. The dream had been so vivid, Henry's retreatingform a ghostly echo of every loss she'd ever suffered. As she set the glassdown, a soft noise disturbed the silence, and she turned to see Liam standingin the doorway, his young face etched with traces of his own nocturnaltorments.
"Can't sleep again?"Charlotte's voice was gentle, an auditory caress in the dim light.
Liam nodded, his eyes wide and hauntedin the shadows. "Bad dream," he muttered, his voice carrying theweight of unspoken fears.
"Come here, love," shebeckoned him closer, concern knitting her brow as she took in his palecountenance. In her embrace, he was a child again, seeking comfort from themonsters lurking in dark corners or, worse, within the recesses of one's ownmind.
"Want to talk about it?" sheasked, her tone soft, a mother's instinct to protect flaring bright within herchest. She led him to the small table at the center of the kitchen, theirmutual need for reassurance drawing them together in the quiet sanctuary.
Liam shook his head, a silent plea inhis eyes. Charlotte understood; sometimes words were too cumbersome, too clumsyto convey the tangled threads of a troubled heart.
"Alright, then we'll just sit fora bit," she offered, her presence a steady anchor in the tempest of hisemotions. She pointed to the table, and then she filled two glasses with waterfrom the tap, its gurgle a soothing counterpoint to their shared disquiet. Thecool liquid seemed to echo the clarity she sought to provide, both for Liam andherself.
"Here," she said, handing himone of the glasses.
"Thanks," Liam murmured, hisvoice raspy with the remnants of sleep and fear. He took a sip, his Adam'sapple bobbing slightly, and Charlotte watched the tension in his shoulders easefractionally.
They sat together until he had finishedthe water.
"Come on, let's get you back tobed," she suggested, her tone warm and convincing. She knew the power ofrest, how it could smooth the jagged lines of a troubled mind just as sleepoften softened the sharp angles of reality into the abstract shapes of dreams.
They walked together through the dimlylit hallway, their footsteps muffled by the thick, worn carpet that ran like acomforting thread through The Old Crown Inn. The walls, adorned with paintingsCharlotte had created in brighter days, whispered tales of hope and resilience,bolstering her resolve.
"Nightmares can't hurt you,Liam," she reassured him, more for her own sake than his. "They'rejust... echoes of our fears, trying to find their way out."
Liam nodded, the ghost of a smilegracing his features. "I know. It just felt so real, you know?"
"I do," she answered,thinking of her own dream, the visceral pain of watching Henry walk away stillechoing in her chest. “You want to talk about the nightmare?”
He shook his head. She nodded.
As they reached his door, a soft creakfrom down the hall snagged Charlotte's attention. Her head turned, eyesnarrowing as she strained to identify the source. The house was old, full ofthe sighs and whispers of age, but this sound seemed out of place—a subtleintrusion upon the sanctity of predawn quiet.
"Did you hear that?" Liamasked, his grip on the refilled glass he’d carried up tightening.
"Probably just the housesettling," Charlotte suggested, though her heart wasn't entirelyconvinced. The noise had been too deliberate, too singular to be merely thenocturnal complaints of ancient timber.
"Try to get some more sleep,"she encouraged, watching as he slipped back into his room. The click of thedoor closing felt final, like the sealing of a vault, and Charlotte stood therefor a moment longer, listening. The silence that followed was deep, almostcomplete, save for the distant call of a gull greeting the dawn. Yet, it was asilence laden with questions and the faintest tremor of trepidation.
With a sigh, Charlotte returned to herown room, leaving the corridor enshrouded in its secrets and the soft,encroaching light of morning. Charlotte hovered at the threshold of her room, asentinel caught between the longing for her own bed's embrace and theunresolved notes of perplexity that the noise had struck in her mind. Her feetfelt leaden with fatigue, yet she couldn't shake the protective instincts thatrose like the tide within her.
"Go back to sleep," shemurmured to herself, a plea wrapped in weariness. "It was nothing, justthe night playing tricks." Yet the idea nestled uncomfortably in herchest, an insidious doubt refusing to be soothed by reason alone.
The house was as quiet as a held breathnow, and even the distant gull seemed to have retreated into the softeningdark. Still, something—a flicker of intuition or perhaps the ghostly remnantsof her own dream—urged Charlotte forward. With each step, her pulse thrummed arhythm of trepidation that seemed to fill the silence around her.
She treaded softly down the hall, hersocks muffled against the ancient floorboards that complained under even thelightest weight. The air felt thick, charged with anticipation, and Charlotte'ssenses sharpened, straining for any repetition of the sound. Her eyes, adjustedto the gloom, scanned every shadow and every benign shape that furniture madein the low light.
