Chapter 4: Secrets Beneath the Water

“Borrowing rice is like borrowing life. You said your mother ran after him with seven grains of rice, right?”

Her voice was low, almost gentle, but there was a weight to her words that made everyone listen. Uncle Wayne nodded, his jaw clenched tight. The rest of the family looked at each other, unease passing between us like static. The idea that a handful of rice could mean so much seemed crazy, but nobody dared argue.

Uncle Wayne, eyes red, nodded. “Mason was there too. He saw it.”

He pointed at me, his finger trembling. I felt everyone's eyes on me, and I wished I could disappear. My mouth went dry, and I looked down at my shoes, wishing I could disappear. The room was silent, waiting for me to speak.

Mrs. Ramsey looked at me, hiding by the door. “Mason, what did that person look like?”

Her voice was softer now, coaxing. I shrank back, not wanting to answer. My heart thudded in my chest, and I tried to remember every detail, but it all felt slippery, like trying to hold water in my hands.

I—I was playing marbles on the porch. Didn’t see his face. Just... just that water kept dripping off him, and there was this awful smell—like rotten fish.

The words tumbled out, my voice barely above a whisper. I could still smell it—briny and sour, the kind of stink that sticks to your clothes after a day at the river. The memory made my stomach twist. My marbles rolled under the porch steps, forgotten as I stared at the stranger’s wet shoes and the puddle forming at his feet.

I wrinkled my nose. I swear I could still smell it, even now. That smell seemed to be lingering again.

Even now, standing in the kitchen, I caught a whiff of it—like something dead and waterlogged had slipped in through the back door. I rubbed my nose, glancing around to see if anyone else noticed. The adults shifted uncomfortably, but no one said a word.

She lowered her head. Pinched her fingers, like she was counting. “Water, rotten fish smell…” she muttered.

Her lips moved in silent calculation, her brow furrowed in concentration. She tapped her fingers together, whispering words I couldn’t quite catch. The kitchen seemed to close in, the air thick with tension and the faint scent of mildew. I held my breath, waiting for her to say something more.

She didn’t wait for us. Just took off, skirts swishing, running straight toward the pond at the edge of Willow Creek.