Once upon a time, there lived a girl named Fallon, who was taken far away from home shortly after she was born. 
A home that held more than strange traditions and bizarre superstitions.
Twenty-four years later, she returned to Weeping Hollow, a town she’d only heard about in stories during restless nights under a marble moon, to take care of her last living relative. 
They called the nosy mortician a freakshow–a ghastly thing.
They said I couldn’t go near her.
Still, there was this aching pull to Fallon Grimaldi that I couldn’t escape.
A nostalgic pull as if we’d been here before.

Once upon a time, there lived a mysterious boy named Julian with a curse as old as centuries wrapped around his soul. 
He was one of the four Hollow Heathens, the very dark creatures who caused the town’s people to live in fear. 
And the Blackwell name was stained with darkness and death.
They called him a monster. Cold and hollow.
They said I shouldn’t go near him.
Still, there was this aching pull to Julian Blackwell that I couldn’t escape.
A nostalgic pull as if we’d been here before.

To my beloved black sea,

It was full dark when I snuck out of the castle to meet you. 

You wore those ripped black jeans and your new friend’s boots, with sleet from the forest still in the grooves. You moved awkwardly in your new clothes because you were still creating yourself, like one of your drawings. 

We drank vanilla cola from glass bottles and listened to a song about how fast the night changes over and over. Two adults frolicking as youths, French kissing in secret to hide from winter and distract ourselves from the town crumbling around us. The way we touched each other was equally punishing and artful, painting a world where we could be together on each other’s skin.

For a while, we pretended. For a while, I was the kind of woman you could be loyal to and fight for, and you weren’t the lost, forbidden Heathen.

Now, it’s been days since I’ve seen you. I’ve decided long ago, and this is my last letter. Everything I’ve worked so hard for—before you came along—will carry on as if our time together never happened. 

Don’t bother stopping me. As I once said, the tremor between us will only lead to carnage.

But as I plunge a knife into the chest of the man I once desired to marry, I’ll think of all those foolish nights when we pretended, our time on Bone Island, vanilla cola, our stupid song, and you.

Yes, my beloved black sea.

I’ll think of you.

xx, a