A Walk on the Shore

The Banquet Hall felt nothing like a prison, except for the way everyone kept glancing at the doors.

Sam found herself among the first to arrive, followed by a trickle of women who entered in various states of daze and dishevelment. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, cinnamon, and some kind of berry compote that had already started to congeal on the hot buffet. Four enormous chandeliers, each hung with crystals that looked like they belonged in a jewelry heist movie, cast everything in an expensive, slightly blue-white glow. Sam was quite sure they hadn’t been there yesterday.

She spotted Dawn and Claire already at a corner table. Dawn, dressed in a cable-knit hoodie over pajamas, sipped orange juice with both hands like it was an antidote. Claire wore a wrinkled but clean button-down, sleeves rolled three times, glasses perched low on her nose as she scribbled in her ever-present notebook. Sam made a beeline for them, grabbing a bowl of oatmeal and a pastry on the way.

Dawn scooted over, making space. “Morning,” she said, voice low. “You sleep at all?”

Sam nodded. “I think my brain’s on caffeine withdrawal. Or maybe it’s just the best hotel bed I’ve ever had.”

Claire wrote something in the notebook and spun it so Sam could see:

Oatmeal is a lie here. I miss pancakes.

Sam grinned. “You and me both, sister.” She dug in, making a show of how bad the oatmeal was. “If you want, we can start a mutiny. Steal the kitchen, hold it for ransom until they make us pancakes.”

Dawn giggled, but the sound was thin. “We’d need more firepower than that.”

She craned her neck to check the other tables. Norah sat alone at the window, back rigid, one hand tapping her fingers compulsively on the table, her newly-augmented chest looking more **** this morning, as if Norah’s entire personality was fighting to keep her upright. Every so often she’d glance at the entrance, then pointedly away, as if denying the room a single glance of vulnerability.

Marissa came in a minute later, guiding Emi with one hand at the small of her back. If anyone could make pajamas and bedhead look like formalwear, it was Emi. Her hair, black and straight, stuck up in an accidental anime spike, but her real challenge was the six arms, all of which seemed to be waging a low-level civil war for control of her body.

Marissa sat Emi at the long table in the center, then quietly began pouring her a glass of water. “Deep breaths,” she murmured, and Emi, face pale and drawn, nodded as all six of her hands braced themselves along the edge of the table.

Sam caught Marissa’s eye and raised an eyebrow in greeting. Marissa’s return nod was polite but distracted. She was already adjusting the sleeves of Emi’s robe, smoothing the wrinkles, helping the new arms fold in an orderly stack. It was so gentle and matter-of-fact that Sam’s heart squeezed for a second. The blue-haired barista was starting to feel uncomfortable. She knew she’d need Andy’s hug in a few hours.

Dawn leaned over and whispered, “Do you think it hurts her?”

Sam shook her head. “She’d say something. I think it’s just… overwhelming. Can you imagine trying to keep track of all that?” She lifted both hands for emphasis, then paused, a smile twisting her mouth. “Well, I guess some of us are going to find out eventually.”

Claire, watching Emi, wrote:

She’s trying so hard. Poor girl.

Sam nodded. “She’s a champ.”

Conversation in the hall was muted, everyone hunched around their food, as if eating could ward off the unreality of the place. Most of the women avoided eye contact, but Sam recognized the glances—the nervous math, the sizing-up, the how-the-hell-did-I-end-up-here. After a night like last night, no one wanted to be the first to start the “so what happens next” conversation.

Liesa was the only one missing. Dawn noticed too, and said, “I heard her leave at dawn. She said she always walks before breakfast.”

Sam shrugged. “With those legs, she probably outruns the tide.”

Claire scribbled:

I’m jealous. I always wanted legs like that.

Sam snorted. “We can get you an upgrade. Just ask the lady in red.”

At that, all three of them glanced toward the entrance, half expecting Arabella to materialize at the mention of her name. She didn’t. Instead, Erin stalked in, hair slicked back and face set. She ignored the buffet, crossed the hall, and stopped in front of their table.

“Can we talk?” she said to Sam, voice flat but direct.

Sam blinked and nodded, wiped her hands on a napkin, and stood. “Back in a sec,” she told Claire and Dawn.

She followed Erin out into the hallway, which was deserted except for a low, piped-in jazz piano. Erin kept walking until they hit a spot with a view of the Zen garden, then stopped, arms folded.

“Thanks for last night,” Erin said, not looking at Sam. “I was… not good company.”

Sam shook her head. “You don’t have to thank me. I get it. I’m not sure I’d have handled it as well as you did.”

Erin laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “I don’t think I handled it at all.” She looked at Sam, eyes glassy. “It’s fucked. All of it. But I don’t want to fall apart, not in front of him.”

Sam nodded. “You don’t have to. You’re not alone here, you know. There’s a bunch of us, and we all want to help, if you let us.” She hesitated, then added, “Andy, too.”

Erin’s face softened. “You always were the softest touch,” she said, and for a second, the old Erin—the one from college, fierce and funny and alive—peeked out.

Sam grinned. “Don’t tell anyone, I have a rep to protect.”

They stood in silence for a minute, watching the wind shift the raked patterns in the sand outside.

Erin looked as if she wanted to say something else, but then thought better of it. She said, “Thanks,” and headed back toward the Hall, leaving Sam alone with the faint echo of old pain.

When Sam rejoined the table, Dawn and Claire were deep in whispered (and written) conversation. Dawn’s face was red, but she immediately smiled when she looked up at Sam. Claire followed her gaze, and after a moment, she gave a lopsided smile as well. Sam sat down.

“What’s the news?” Dawn asked.

“Just a pep talk,” Sam replied. “We’re all going to be fine. I think.” She took a deep breath, then, quieter, “How’s Emi?”

Dawn glanced over. “She’s getting the hang of it. Marissa’s helping.”

Across the room, Marissa and Emi had developed a system: Marissa would gently tap one of the new hands, and Emi would focus all her attention on it, willing it to stillness. Every time a new arm started to flail, Marissa would tap it, and Emi would clamp it down with the others. The process was slow, but Emi’s face was less panicked now, more focused.

Sam watched for a moment, then said, “They’re actually kind of cute together.”

Claire wrote:

I ship it.

Dawn snorted, and Sam choked on her oatmeal. “I’ve known you since yesterday and I can already say with certainty: you’re impossible,” Sam said. Their table had become the unofficial home base, and the other women began to orbit it, drifting by for a cup of coffee or a quick, nervous hello. Norah finally abandoned her lonely outpost and joined them, dropping into a chair with a sigh and a defiant glare.

“Morning,” she said, making it sound like a dare.

“Hey, Norah,” Sam replied. “How’s the air up there?”

Norah rolled her eyes. “Hilarious, Collins. At least I don’t have octopus arms.”

Emi, across the room, waved all six hands in greeting. “Hi, Norah!” she said, voice bright.

Norah grimaced, but a smile tugged at her lips. “Hi, Kim. You’re doing great.”

Dawn poured Norah a cup of coffee, then Sam leaned in. “We were just about to talk about Andy. And what happens next.”

Norah’s eyes narrowed. “What about him? He’s a guy. He’s always going to pick himself, when it counts.”

Marissa, overhearing, interjected gently: “He’s not like that, Norah. I know it sounds like a cliché, but it’s true.”

Norah fixed Marissa with a skeptical stare. “You knew him for what, a few meetings, Holt? I worked with him for months. You don’t know what he’s really like.”

Dawn, quietly: “I don’t think he’s playing a role. I’ve seen him when he thinks no one is watching.”

Sam nodded. “Me too. I’ve known him seven years. He’s dumb, and stubborn, and he makes every decision like it’s going to ruin someone’s life, but—” she paused, aware that everyone was watching, “if he could get us all out of this right now, he’d do it. Even if it meant killing himself.”

The table was quiet. Claire wrote:

He’s always been kind to me.

She paused, then added:

Even when he did not need to be.

Norah just rolled her eyes. “This is all a sick game. We’re just waiting for the next shoe to drop.”

From across the room, Emi flashed a six-armed thumbs-up.

The women sat, sharing the moment, until the kitchen doors opened and a smiling woman in an unrelieved black uniform, a golden badge on her left breast, rolled out a second cart of breakfast. A pyramid of pancakes, fresh and steaming.

“Who is that?” Erin grunted, pointing at the attendant. Her long black hair was streaked with violet, and her lips were painted a deep red. Marissa shrugged.

“Hotel personnel. You’re Mildred, right?”

The woman smiled sweetly and, in a voice redolent with sweetness and the sound of chewed glass, replied softly, “Of course, Mistress. I hope these pancakes meet with your satisfaction.” Erin blinked. The woman’s badge said ‘The HH - Service.’

At the sight of the pancakes, Claire smiled.

Sam reached for the syrup. “Mutiny works faster than I thought,” she said. Erin thought of something else to ask the waitress, but she had already fled back to the kitchen.

They ate, and for a little while, it almost felt normal.

The tide was on its way out, leaving behind glistening trails of seaweed and tangles of driftwood. Andy followed the shore until the soft sand became stubbled with black rocks, the kind that looked like ancient giants left to guard the coastline. As he rounded one of the outcroppings, almost at the point where the hotel vanished from view, he nearly tripped over the last person he’d expected to see before breakfast.

Liesa was perched on a flat slab of granite, knees drawn to her chest, bare feet half-buried in the wet sand. Her hair, wind-mussed and streaked with sunlight, tumbled out of the loose braid she’d favored since college. She wore a faded band t-shirt and, over it, a men’s flannel, cuffs unbuttoned and flapping in the morning breeze. Beside her on the stone sat a small canvas bag and—of all things—a travel tea set, delicate porcelain cups nestled in a bamboo box.

She looked up, saw him, and blinked. Then she smiled, a quick, involuntary flicker, and lifted a hand in greeting.

“Andy,” she said, accent more pronounced than he remembered. “Je bet vroeg.”*

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, recalling the little Flemish he’d learned with her, back in college. “Didn’t think anyone else would be out here.”

She shrugged, as if to say, Where else would I be? She untucked her feet from under herself and shifted, wincing as she did. Andy noticed, for the first time, the faint pink along the edge of her heel, a patch of skin rubbed raw.

“You okay?” he asked, coming closer but stopping short of the stone.

Liesa followed his gaze, then grinned, abashed. “I am not used to this many sand,” she said. “It is different from Belgian sand. Zachter… Softer, I think. It gets everywhere.”

He laughed, and it felt good—real, not ****. “Yeah, it’s famous for that.”

She glanced at the tea set, then back at him. “Would you sit with me?” she asked. “Er is genoeg.”** She gestured at the stone, which had a second, lower tier next to her. Andy nodded and folded himself onto the cold, gritty slab. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve lost a bit of my English.”

She opened the canvas bag and pulled out a thermos, then the bamboo box. She laid a small cloth between them, then began unwrapping the cups—each the size of a ping-pong ball, blue and white glazed with a pattern of cranes and reeds.

“Is this… yours?” Andy asked, watching her hands work with the calm precision of a jeweler.

She nodded. “I travel with it. It is… ah…” She searched for a word, then settled on, “ritual.” She looked at him, almost shy. “It was in my room. Arabella, maybe? It helps, sometimes. To make a gewoonte… a routine, when everything is new.”

He recognized the impulse. “Yeah. I used to do pour-over every morning before work. It was the only way to pretend I wasn’t just making it all up.”

She grinned, then twisted the thermos cap. “In Belgium, tea is not so popular. But I like it.” She poured, careful not to spill, and handed him the cup with both hands.

He took it, surprised by the heat. The cup was thin, almost weightless, and the tea inside was clear gold.

“Jasmine?” he guessed.

She nodded, pleased. “You remember.”

He did. She’d always ordered jasmine in the college café, rolling the word like candy in her mouth. For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the crash and hiss of the sea, and the distant cries of gulls.

Liesa sipped her tea, then set the cup down and looked at Andy, her expression more serious. “I wanted to talk at you last night. But I was too tired. Het spijt me,”*** she said, quietly. “For how I left. For not explaining. It was… it was not my choice, but I made it seem like I wanted to go.”

He felt the ache in her words, the apology so long delayed it had calcified into something almost sacred. “You don’t have to—”

“No, please,” she interrupted, her voice trembling just a little. “I have wanted to say this for years, but I do not know how. And now we are here, and it is strange, and I think, if I do not say, I will never have the chance again.” She took a breath, steadying herself. “I never wanted to leave you, Andy. It is the thing I regret from that time. But I cannot explain it yet. I am… not ready.”

He heard the fear in her voice, the years of practiced silence. He reached for her hand, then hesitated, unsure if it was welcome. Of all people, he was the most intimate with the concept of some pains being too personal to share, even after years. Either way she made the decision for him, sliding her fingers into his, her palm warm and sand-gritty.

“I never hated you,” he said. “I was mad for a while, and it hurt, but mostly I just… missed you.” And I wondered if you left because of me, he thought, but he could not tell her that.

Liesa’s eyes glistened, but she blinked it away. She squeezed his hand, then poured them both more tea, hands shaking so badly she almost spilled. He took the cup from her, holding it steady, and in that gesture there was a whole history: late nights in the library, hands brushing under the table, laughter so fierce it made them both cry.

“I am still getting used to being here,” she said, voice thick. “It is like a story that does not make sense, and I am always afraid I will wake up, and it will be gone again.”

He smiled. “You and me both.”

For a while, they just sat, sipping tea, watching the tide. Andy studied the way the sun caught her hair, the way the corners of her mouth quirked up even when she tried to look serious. He’d forgotten how much he liked the sound of her voice, the way she’d slip into Flemish when English ran out of words.

“So,” she said, after a long silence, “what happens now?”

He laughed. “I have no idea. Arabella says we have eight days before the next challenge. I think the real challenge is just… surviving them.”

She grinned. “The others are not so bad. I like Emi. She is funny, and brave.” Liesa hesitated, then added, “I think Marissa is too smart for this place. She sees everything.”

“Yeah,” Andy agreed. “Her and Claire. They’re probably working up a theory right now.”

Liesa looked at him, thoughtful. “Do you think we will ever leave?”

The question hit him harder than he expected. He wanted to say yes, wanted to believe it. But the truth felt more complicated.

“Yes,” he said, because that was what she needed to hear.

She laughed, a real, bright sound. He clinked his cup against hers, the sound ringing through the morning air.

They watched the sea together, and Andy felt a faint possibility of happiness, as fragile and fleeting as the steam rising from their cups.

When the tea was gone, Liesa wrapped the cups with care, then dusted off her hands and stood, wincing again as her bare feet hit the sand.

“Need help?” Andy asked, offering his arm.

She took it, her fingers fitting perfectly between his. “Always,” she said, and the word hung there, sweet and unbroken, between them.

They walked the shoreline back toward the hotel, leaving only a double line of footprints in the wet sand, side by side.

By the time they made it back to the hotel, the sun had arced high and begun its long slide toward the water. The light was different now—slantwise, golden, casting their shadows all the way up the beach until they looked like giants walking home from some ancient war. Andy and Liesa walked slow, savoring the rhythm of it, the clean salt air, the little shocks of cold water that crept up between their toes when the waves surged inland.

The wind picked up as they crested the last dune. Liesa stopped, tilting her face to the sky. “It smells like home,” she said. “Not Belgium, but… a place I would want to live, if I could choose.”

Andy stood beside her, shoulders just touching. “You can choose,” he said, and then, after a pause, “At least in here.” He touched his chest.

Liesa smiled, then reached for her cloth bag, which held the bamboo tea box. She cinched it tight, but a stray gust of wind sent a few dried leaves skittering across the sand. They both chased after them, laughing as the leaves tumbled and rolled, always just out of reach. When they finally caught the last of the runaways, and tucked them into a little cloth pocket, Andy cradled it in his palm, feeling the absurd weight of it—a memory, a morning, a promise not to lose someone again.

They reached the hotel entrance, and Liesa stopped, brushing the sand from her feet with a practiced motion. She looked up at him, her face earnest, a little shy.

“Will you be okay?” she asked.

Andy nodded, too tired to pretend otherwise. “Yeah. I think so.” He held out the packet of tea leaves. “This is for you. In case you need another ritual.”

She closed his hand over it. “No,” she said, “You keep. It will remind you there is always a way back. Even if the sand is soft.”

He smiled, caught off-guard by the tenderness of it. “Thank you.”

Liesa leaned in, quick as a cat, and kissed his cheek. “Tot straks,” she whispered. “See you later.”

Andy watched her go, bare feet silent on the lobby tile, before he turned toward the elevators.

Back in the Master’s Suite, the air was still and heavy with the faint perfume of fresh-cut flowers. The cleaning staff—whoever they were—had straightened every pillow, smoothed every sheet, left nothing behind except the arrangement of white lilies on the coffee table.

Katherine was there, of course, still in her frame, her painted hair glossy and perfect under the lights. But something had changed in her posture: she reclined against the edge of the canvas, arms relaxed, shoulders a fraction lower. It was the body language of someone who’d been waiting all day for news and finally got the word that everything would be alright. He saw her brighten at his return, and he smiled at her. “Good evening, Katherine.”

Andy set the tea leaves on the table in front of her, an offering or a thank-you. He took a long look at the painting—the way her eyes softened, just a little, the way her lips hinted at a smile—and nodded in return.

He followed her gaze to the balcony, where the sky was already bruising purple and gold. The sun, low now, hit the waves and sent a hundred thousand sparks ricocheting off the surface. He stepped outside, closed his eyes, and let the breeze strip away what was left of the morning’s fear.

He stayed out there until dusk, the tea packet in his pocket, the memory of the day warm as a second sun.

* "You're up early."

** "There is enough [space]."

*** "I'm sorry."