A Hole at the Bottom of the Sea: Part 3 | serial
A rescue crew has set sail in search of salvation for their crumbling seaside village, but the uncharted ocean has an unsated appetite for mystery that just might swallow them whole.
I lay awake in the darkest hours of the night, eyes wildly gazing. Staring up at the lacquered boards above my head. Far from focused. Bone-weary. Sleepless.
My mind churned with the weighty preoccupations of a puzzle that resisted solving. Finally, with depleted rage, I shot up in bed. Running my fingers from my forehead to my chin, I washed my face with my dry hands and considered the indeterminate time, unwilling to pursue the ponderous any longer.
With reluctance, I pulled the threadbare blanket from around my body, letting my cold feet slap the salty floor. I turned to the trunk at the foot of my bed in reflex, only to stop myself halfway through the rotation. My head bobbed loosely without direction for a moment, scanning the room, trying to identify some distraction. Something other than to rummage through the debris once more.
Such moments only lead to inevitable frustration.
Rubbing my aching knees, I glanced up at the partially opened porthole window beside my bed. I could see the moon in waning crescent, an impossible feat, considering it had been in waxing gibbous the night before. Its predictability had vanished, phasing beyond the bounds of its phases, seemingly whenever one looked away.
I rested there for a moment, my groggy eyes slowly drifting back towards the trunk. With a guttural sigh, I gave in and found myself kneeling before the wooden box with iron belts that pressed it together.
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