Weathered wood from the swim platform flashes before his eyes as he dives off the boat and into turquoise blue. And in a moment, he is pulled down under the waves and into the deep. Water encloses his ears and his eyes adjust to the murky light. The watch glimmers up at him as he swims further and reaches out for it.

As the watch glides deeper, he can see tendrils of seaweed flowing softly toward him. Deep red and sleek, each strand is more vibrant than the next, some of them brushing up against the watch and others stretching out toward his cheeks as his arms stretch out, trying to reach the watch with quick grabs. He’s starting to lose breath.

He can feel the pressure build in his lungs, but holds on and breathes out to release some bubbles, which help him push further down. The watch is about a foot in front of him, twirling downward, so close and so slow but still out of reach. It almost seems like it's toying with him.

He stretches his arms out front and forces another quick, broad stroke, launching forward and catching the leather strap in his right fist. Relieved, he closes his eyes and steadies his mind. Got it!

Pressure forms around his wrist as he looks up at the surface. It’s not as far as he imagined, and he should be able to have enough reserves in his lungs to make it back to the top. With the quick flutter of his legs, he tries to launch upward. Nothing. He can’t move. He focuses again on the shimmering light at the top, flowing across the surface. He flutters his legs once more with harsh force this time and the pressure around his wrist grows more painful. Still no movement. Shit, he must be caught on something. He jerks his right hand and sharp edges dig into his wrist.

His heart skips. He’s almost afraid to see how caught he actually is. Trying to steady his mind again and reserve the bit of air he has left, he refocuses eyes back down into the deep blue to see what’s keeping him caught.

He looks at his wrist and suddenly grows cold. Pale, delicate fingers enclose the base of his hand, each punctuated with a long-pointed nail piercing into his skin. The tendrils of red seaweed circle up and around him. Then, with one strong pull, the hand launches him deeper. The water grows colder around him as goose bumps trail up his arms.

As Hank’s eyes adjust, he can make out a pale oval face gingerly rising up to meet his. The delicate chin and wideset eyes look strangely familiar and are framed in fiery tendrils matching what he had assumed earlier to be just seaweed. Her electric green eyes dance with excitement but the rest of her face is eerily still. As she stares into his own deep brown eyes, she demurely cocks her head to the side and keeps her strong but delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist. And suddenly the sea is spinning around them.

He’s not able to leave her gaze as her eyes glow from green to fiery blue and back to green again, but he can make out the fast motion of a tail moving wildly just a few feet beneath them, setting them into a whirlpool and spinning them around like a school of fish. Those electric eyes change back to furious blue. And she opens her plump lips to reveal rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth. Her front fangs are tapered neatly at the ends and she lets out a piercing scream.

Everything flashes to white. Hank floats motionless, stuck in her grasp. All he can feel is the vibration of that high-pitched scream, morphing into something that sounds almost like a song and moving up and down his spine.

A song and sound that feels painfully beautiful, yet terrifying. It’s in a language and cadence he can’t quite understand at first but eventually makes out two words that rip him to the core. “You forgot,” she sings. You forgot… you forgot… you forgot…

The alarm beeped. Hank shut it off and awoke to the soft morning light with that tick, tick, ticking sound bouncing between his ears and trying to coax him back to his dreams. What is that noise? It always took him a moment to realize if the sound had been borne of his deep, saliva-soaked sleep or was coming from somewhere outside. Like the faraway thump of a dripping faucet, the ticking would slowly pour out of his mind as he drifted back into consciousness.

That weird noise again. He’d wondered about it many times. What did it mean? Was it from a memory or worse, early signs of an aneurysm? It had a metallic sound like his old watch and a comforting lull to it that also reminded him of a beating drum--or his thumping heart as blood rushed to his ears when he ran on icy mornings. Every morning it would fade. The light would stream in. His eyes would slowly adjust to reality and clear out the sound of his dreams.

After yawning and holding sore arms out in a stretch, he threw the covers off, jumped to his feet, and shuffled into the kitchen for coffee. Then, the lists of the day’s activities took over.  

Do I still need to wash the dogs today? No. You don’t have dogs anymore you ass. She took them, remember. Idiot. F**k. Cheryl wasn’t that great anyway.

Okay, but I do need to head to the bank. Do laundry. That thing at Jon’s is on Saturday, should probably wear something presentable for that. Damn... I don’t even know if I want to go.

Trent was wondering about that piece he found out in Maine. I’ll talk to him about it today. The picture was kinda blurry. He really needs to get a hold of himself. Who brings an antique watch to a nightclub anyway? The thing probably smells like vodka Redbull and cotton candy perfume by now. I’ll take a look. He’s not a bad guy he usually finds some good stuff.

Hank thought all of this to himself as he ground the coffee beans, flipped on the switch to his old coffee maker, and headed to the cabinet for a bowl of cereal. He stood at the kitchen island as he finished the cereal.

Pen in hand, he scratched his head and wrote a quick list in his notebook, laughing to himself about what an ancient relic notebooks were now.

He still brought it with him everywhere and got a few laughs for it. The leather backing was frayed at the edges.

The coffee-stained pages were filled with lists like this morning’s, notes on the latest finds, quick math, book recommendations, contacts. Hank could remember Trent’s reaction to it on his first day working at the coffee shop.

“What’s that?” Trent had asked, bemused and grinning from ear to ear as he sat at the wooden bar.

Hank held up the fraying notebook, “It’s a notebook. I know you know what a notebook is.”

Trent snorted, taking a muffin in his hand and sauntering out the door.

“Take it easy old man, I’ll see you next Wednesday. 6 AM sharp?”

“Yeah, I’ll see yah. You’re welcome for the opportunity by the way,” Hank had projected at him dryly.

That day was the beginning of an unshakeable partnership that has so far lasted for five years—with Trent acting like a jackass, but actually being the most punctual, organized, and reliable person Hank had ever worked with. Hank folded into the mix by being a fair and steady boss, or at least he liked to think of himself that way, and also being exactly sixteen minutes late every single day. And also being the most absent-minded boss he’d ever imagined he could be.

Back in the new morning light, Hank finished the notes he was scratching down in his notebook, downed the rest of the coffee, and sets the pen down on the kitchen island. Trent’s probably over there. Better head out.

After grabbing his essentials—phone, keys, wallet, notebook—he locked the front door of his small house and looked out into the fresh morning air. Large pine trees lined his front yard. He took in the fresh scent as he stepped out onto the unpaved road, leading to the shop.

Obsidian was a pretty small town and remained so, despite the booming city just 40 minutes away. More people would pass through in the summer as they stopped by on their way to and from the mountains. On chilly winter afternoons, they would also flock in after busy ski days.

But it was very much thought of as "that old mining town," a stable community that never really seemed to attract many new people. The solid community that had been there for generations was nestled in, almost protected from the outer chaos.

Hank walked briskly down the road, looking over and waving at Ann as she sipped coffee on her porch, and laughing at old John a few doors down who eyed him suspiciously from behind his blinds. Every morning, he thinks. Known the man more than 30 years and he still looks at me like I’m crouchin' behind his bushes in full camo or something.

Each house was modestly sized and older, some in brick, others in wood shingles or stone. Those with chimneys, puffed out gentle streams of smoke as people warmed up the fireplaces for the chilly October mornings.

He turned the corner and stepped onto the paved sidewalks of Main St. The quaint town center had all the fixings of the quintessential mountain town. Dotting the street were taffy shops, a local florist, and a post office with vibrant photos of that month’s stamp designs plastered to the window.

Hank walked past the stores and nodded at the few who had already set up shop for the day. Then, he eyed his parking lot. A red Chevy was parked out front of a log cabin-style shop with large windows and a few tables set up on the wrap around porch.

A sign hung in front with a bold, lacquer-black font, “Oldman’s Coffee shop – The one with the big mugs.” Hank smiled up at the sign as he did every morning and unlocked the front doors. He looked down at his watch, which pulsed once—6:16 on the dot.

“You’re late!” Trent smiled up. He was wiping down each round wooden table, and the lacquered cherry wood shimmered in the soft light under glowing lamps. “I’m right on time,” Hank said.

“After rush hour, tell me about this piece you found,” he nodded toward Trent.

“I think I might start looking into this one too,” he looked down at his grandfather’s watch and tapped the top of it. The worn leather fit his wrist perfectly, and mother-of-pearl glowed within the watch’s face. 6:18. It was time he started trying to remember.