Whispers at the Edge

The Belizean night stretched out before them, warm and quiet, the tide rolling against the shore in slow, measured waves. The ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and something faintly sweet from the trees beyond the porch.

Jessica sat cross-legged on the couch outside, a glass of whiskey balanced in her hand, watching the stars. She wasn’t sure why she felt restless. There was no case to solve. No enemies watching from the shadows. No immediate threat to unravel. But even in the silence, she felt like something was waiting.

Sam stepped out onto the porch, rolling his shoulders as he sat beside her. He was holding his own drink, moving slow and easy, watching her the way he always did—like he was waiting for her to speak first.

Finally, he broke the silence. “You’re quiet tonight.”

Jessica smirked, taking a slow sip of whiskey. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the moment.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s not your style.”

Jessica exhaled, resting her head against the back of the couch. “No. Guess it’s not.”

Sam studied her for a beat, then leaned back himself, letting the night settle around them. The record player inside the house played something low and smoky—Miles Davis, Kind of Blue—a sound that fit the mood without interrupting it.

Jessica tilted her head slightly, watching Sam out of the corner of her eye.

“You ever think about dreams?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “All the time.”

“I don’t mean the kind you have when you’re awake.”

Sam took a sip of his drink. “You mean the ones you can’t control.”

Jessica nodded slowly. “Yeah. The ones that feel like they belong to someone else.”

Sam didn’t answer right away. He just watched her, waiting.

Jessica let the whiskey roll over her tongue, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve been having dreams lately. Not nightmares. Just… memories. But they’re not mine.”

Sam’s voice was calm, even. “Tell me about them.”

Jessica tapped her fingers against her glass. “They’re fragments. Sometimes a place I’ve never been. Sometimes a voice I don’t recognize. A decision I feel like I’ve made before.” She exhaled sharply. “Hell, sometimes I wake up feeling like I just lived an entire life that wasn’t mine.”

Sam was quiet, his expression unreadable.

Jessica continued. “I’ve been looking into them. Researching the places I see. Some of them exist. Some of them shouldn’t.”

Sam tilted his head. “And what do you think that means?”

Jessica smirked. “I think I’m either on the verge of a revelation or completely losing my mind.”

Sam chuckled, swirling his whiskey. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone had both happen at the same time.”

Jessica looked at him, amused. “That supposed to be comforting?”

Sam gave her a half-smile. “I don’t think you’re losing your mind, Jess. I think you’re finally starting to remember something real.”

Jessica exhaled through her nose. “Yeah. But whose memories am I remembering?”

Sam took another slow sip of whiskey, thinking. “You ever read Borges?”

Jessica smirked. “You’re gonna bring up Funes the Memorious, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Sam’s voice was warm, steady. “A man who remembers everything, down to the smallest detail. A perfect memory.”

Jessica sighed. “And it drives him insane because he can’t forget.”

Sam nodded. “Memory is a dangerous thing.” He looked at her, quiet for a long moment. “So what do you want, Jess? To remember everything? Or to finally forget?”

Jessica didn’t answer right away.Instead, she leaned forward, resting her glass on the table, the ice clicking against the glass. “I don’t know yet. No, I want to remember. I think. But I’m afraid of what comes with it.”

And that was the truth.

They spent the rest of the evening like normal people. Or as close as Jessica ever got. The whiskey bottle slowly emptied, the record player moved from Miles Davis to Bill Evans. The conversation shifted from memories to stories, from philosophy to quiet laughter. And when the night deepened, and the drinks were finished, Jessica let herself fall into the warmth of something steady. Something real.

Sam’s touch was deliberate, like he wasn’t trying to claim her, just remind her she was here. She let herself sink into that feeling. Let herself be Jessica Sanchez, not a ghost chasing lost time. For once, she let herself believe the past didn’t matter. Just this. Just now. And for a little while, it was enough, but even then, something in her didn’t believe the night was real. Something waited beneath the surface.

* * *

The morning smelled like coffee and pancakes.

Jessica stirred slightly, the warmth of the bed making it too easy to stay still. She heard Sam moving in the kitchen, the quiet sound of a pan scraping against the stove, the familiar ritual of a man who knew how to start a day right.

She let her eyes drift shut again, just for a moment. Then—her phone buzzed. Jessica frowned, reaching for it blindly.

No caller ID.

Her stomach tightened. The haze of sleep cleared instantly. She sat up, rolling her shoulders, already awake in a way she didn’t want to be.

She answered. “Yeah.”

The voice on the other end was distorted. Scrambled. Artificial.

“You need to leave. Now.”

Jessica’s fingers tightened around the phone.

“Who is this?”

There was a short pause, Then “They’re coming for you. You have twenty minutes.”

Jessica exhaled slowly, her mind shifting into gear.

“Who’s coming?”

Click. The line went dead.

Jessica lowered the phone, her pulse steady, but her body already moving. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet hitting the cool floor.

Sam’s voice carried in from the kitchen. “You up?”

Jessica exhaled through her nose. “Yeah.”

She grabbed her bag from the corner of the room, pulling on her clothes in quick, efficient movements. Sam stepped into the doorway, coffee in one hand, watching her.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he took a slow sip of coffee. “How bad?”

Jessica slung the bag over her shoulder, glanced at her phone one more time, then looked up at him.

“Bad enough.”