Page 35 of Evermore

“Thank you,” Finn whispered against River's shoulder as the lighthouse beam swept through the bedroom windows. “For not thinking I'm crazy, for not running away, for making me feel less alone with all this.”

“Thank you for trusting me with it,” River replied, his arms tightening around Finn with protective tenderness. “Whatever happens with your condition, whatever Dr. Voss's treatment involves, we're in this together.”

The steady rhythm of the lighthouse beam and River's breathing gradually lulled Finn toward sleep, his body relaxing for the first time in weeks. But as consciousness faded, heexperienced a moment of profound recognition—not just of River's presence, but of this exact comfort, this specific safety, this particular peace that came from sleeping in River's arms while the lighthouse kept its faithful watch.

Morning brought confusion wrapped in embarrassment and tied with a bow of complete bewilderment. Finn stirred in River's bed, warm and comfortable and gradually becoming aware that something was wrong. Not wrong in a bad way—wrong in a way that suggested he'd done something significant during the night without any memory of the activity.

On the nightstand beside River's bed sat a letter written in Finn's unmistakable handwriting, several pages of elegant script that demonstrated the kind of emotional intensity usually reserved for love letters or suicide notes. But Finn had no memory of writing anything, let alone the detailed correspondence that bore his signature.

River was already awake, sitting up in bed with the letter in his hands, his expression cycling through emotions Finn couldn't identify. Confusion, certainly. Concern, obviously. But also something that looked like recognition, as if the letter contained information that connected to knowledge River already possessed.

“Did I write that last night?” Finn asked, though the evidence was undeniable.

“I woke up around three AM and found you sitting at my desk, writing with complete absorption. You seemed fully awake and purposeful, not like you were sleepwalking or confused.” River's voice was carefully controlled, but Finn could hear underlying tension. “Do you remember any of it?”

“Nothing.” Finn held out his hand for the letter, dreading what he might have revealed during another episode. “What does it say?”

River hesitated before handing over the pages, his reluctance suggesting the content was either deeply personal or completely disturbing. Finn read his own words with growing horror and confusion:

My dearest River,

I don't know why I'm writing this or how I know the things I'm about to tell you, but something in my mind is insisting these words need to exist on paper. Maybe it's another symptom of whatever's happening to my brain, but it feels more like remembering than imagining.

I know about the storm that took your father when you were sixteen. I know you were supposed to go on that rescue mission with him, but you had the flu and stayed home. I know you still wake up sometimes thinking you hear the Coast Guard radio crackling with emergency calls, and that you check the weather obsessively before any diving expedition because you're terrified of being caught off guard the way he was.

I know about the scar on your left shoulder from when you fell off the dock trying to impress Sarah McKenna when you were fourteen, and how your father bandaged it while lecturing you about showing off for girls. I know you keep his dive knife in your equipment bag even though the blade istoo worn to be useful, because it makes you feel like he's still watching out for you underwater.

I know that you talk to marine specimens when you think no one is listening, the same way your father used to talk to his rescue equipment before difficult missions. I know you chose marine biology partly because the ocean took him from you, but mostly because it was the last place you felt connected to who he was.

I don't understand how I know these things, River. They feel like memories, but they're not mine. They feel like conversations we've had, but we haven't. I'm scared that my condition is worse than anyone realizes, that I'm losing the ability to distinguish between what's real and what my damaged brain is creating.

But I'm more scared that I'll forget you the way my mother forgot me. I'm scared that whatever's happening to my mind will take away the best thing that's ever happened to me before I've had time to fully understand what we have together.

I love you. I know it's too soon and too intense and probably evidence that my judgment is completely compromised, but I love you with a certainty that feels older than our relationship timeline. If I forget everything else, I hope I remember that.

Always yours,

Finn

“This is impossible,” Finn whispered, staring at words that demonstrated understanding of River's private history that no one should possess. “You never told me about Sarah McKenna or the scar on your shoulder. I've never seen your father's dive knife or heard you talk about feeling connected to him through your work.”

River's face had gone very pale, his green eyes wide with something that looked like fear mixed with impossible recognition. “Everything in that letter is accurate. Details I've never shared with anyone, memories I thought were completely private. Even my sister doesn't know about some of these things.”

“How could I know them?”

“I don't know. But Finn...” River's voice dropped to almost a whisper. “This isn't just lucky guessing or intuitive understanding. This is intimate knowledge that would require either extensive surveillance or...” He trailed off, unable to voice the supernatural implications.

“Or what?”

“Or something that conventional medicine can't explain.”

Finn felt the world tilt sideways, reality becoming unstable in ways that had nothing to do with his medical condition. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying maybe your episodes aren't just neurological phenomena. Maybe they're something else entirely, something that conventional medicine can't explain or treat.” River took the letter back, studying it with the careful attention he brought to scientific data. “And I'm saying that if that's true, we need to be very careful about who we trust with this information.”

The implication hung between them like a sword waiting to fall. If Finn's condition wasn't purely medical, if it involved accessing information from impossible sources, then Dr. Voss's research might not be the salvation he'd hoped for.

It might be something much more dangerous.

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