The morning Ivy Grace first saw the man with the strange eyes, the same shiver crawled up her spine as when Hurricane Hugo had scraped her childhood from the earth.

She’d stood barefoot on the wooden planks of the porch of her Beaufort childhood home, salt wind tugging at her Care Bear pajamas, her toes curled against splinters. The sky churned an odd, sickly green and her parents wore expressions she’d never seen before. Their old TV spit out lots of crackly, scary sounds and her parents tried to keep her from listening. The fierce wind had knocked her down, and she’d scooted across the porch to hold onto the railing. Clutching her worn, stuffed rabbit, Dumpling, to her chest, she’d watched the wind tear the screen door off its hinges and toss it into the sky. “Ivy Grace!” her mother screamed, dashing onto the porch, scooping her into her arms, and racing to a closet. Then, the sky itself had cracked wide open.

Thirty-seven years later, the experience still held the power to steal sleep.

Ivy Grace jolted awake, sweat rolling off her face, heart thudding in her chest. The sheets had tangled around her legs as if the storm had tried to drown her again. Travel had become a distant memory. Her social life had shrunk to the size of a sand dollar. If the forecast bore the slightest hint of high winds, she white-knuckled it to work, driving well below the speed limit. People told her time healed all things, but time had only shifted the landscape of her life and left her to figure out how to rebuild.

She rolled out of bed, showered, and slipped on jeans and a pale gray blouse. The morning light intruded through the blinds. Dust swirled around her as she pulled them shut. The small coastal museum where she worked felt safe. The museum had become her sanctuary, a place where the past stayed behind glass where it belonged.

The museum building, a two-story, hundred-year-old, historic affair, sat starkly against the pink streaks of dawn. Ivy loved arriving before anyone else. The preserved and restored wood-plank veranda creaked beneath her feet as she unlocked the door. A cool, sacred hush filled the building. The comforting smell of vintage paper, Civil War relics, and Gullah baskets grounded her.

She smelled something else, too. Something rather … wonderful. Her gaze narrowed. Sensing a presence, Ivy scanned the room with clenched hands, her jaw working, until she saw a man standing near a narrow window, dawn framing him in pools of light. For a moment, Ivy thought the light came from him, not the sun. Tall, lean, ageless. Silverish hair, sharp cheekbones, strong jaw. Not one of the volunteers. How had he gotten in?

“Can I help you?” Ivy asked, surprised her voice didn’t wobble.

He smiled as if they’d met before. “You’re Ivy Grace.” Not a question.

Her pulse spiked. “Museum’s closed for another hour. I’m afraid you need to leave.”

“I wanted to talk to you before visitors come.”

His calm, gentle tone reassured her. The eyes were an impossible shade of blue-green, like sea glass.

“You’ve carried something heavy for a long time, haven’t you?”

Ivy froze. “What are you talking about?”

He moved closer. “You still dream about Hugo.”

Her stomach flipped. “How could you possibly know that?”

He arced his arm into the air. The gesture felt ethereal. Incandescent. As if rainbows might spring from his fingers. “You’ve been crying out for help.”

She took a step back. “I don’t know who you are, but you should leave.”

“Five is too young to understand why your parents raced you into the closet. Too young to know the difference between the house shaking and the world ending. But you did internalize the feeling. As a child, fear can burrow deep inside. And stay there.”

Her throat tightened. “Stop this!”

He motioned toward the window, the brightening morning. “Walk with me.”

Against every rational thought, she followed him outside.

They walked along the waterfront, where shrimpers worked with a calm rhythm, getting their boats ready. The breeze caressed her face. The morning sun began melting the ice inside her. Today’s breeze was comforting instead of threatening, nothing like her nightmares. Nothing like walls rattling, roof groaning, water rising in angry pockets of black. The man’s long strides somehow matched her smaller ones. They strode down the waterfront in silence.

“What’s your name?”

“Names are for those who stay.”

She gave him a sharp look.

He smiled his indulgence. “Call me Adrian.”

They sat on a bench.

“Hugo took our house,” Ivy began, her voice cracking. “Everything we owned. I remember my father carrying me through dark water. Mom crying for weeks.” She released a long breath. “The swing set in the backyard. The furniture. Nothing left to salvage.” She chuckled, sadly. “Even my parents aren’t salvageable. They’re still alive, but act like one wrong move could destroy them again.”

Adrian listened to each word as if it were a fragile treasure to protect. The air she breathed seemed to calm around him.

“Each night is a struggle. Storms. Sirens. Even a heavy rain affects me. I tell people I’m just cautious, but the truth is I’m terrified of being trapped again. Terrified of watching my life wash away and I can’t stop it.”

He gazed at a dove pecking the ground at their feet. “If you could speak to her—tiny Ivy on the porch—what would you tell her?”

She faltered, caught off guard. She’d expected suggestions. A lecture. Pity. The usual litany of pat responses. He offered none of those things. She drifted back to 1989, imagining Dumpling clutched in her small fingers, the sky bruised in warning, the wind gritty and angry, churning against her body.

“I’d tell her she isn’t alone,” Ivy whispered, tears dropping. “That storms are scary, but they pass. I’d tell her she survives.”

“And would she believe you?”

She looked at him—really looked.

“Yes. I think she would.”

“Don’t you think then, you should believe you, now?”

Her skin prickled with something akin to electricity.

He tilted his face toward the feeble, pale sun pushing its way through the morning mist. “Some storms don’t strike the earth, they strike the mind. And souls get trapped inside them for decades.”

Ivy swallowed. “Are you saying you … help people out of storms?”

His full-throated laughter cascaded through her. An exuberant waterfall, rich and vibrant. “In a manner of speaking.”

She pulled her legs up onto the bench, wrapped her arms around her knees. “Why me?”

“Because you’re tired,” said Adrian. “And ready to put Hugo behind you.”

Ivy stared across the harbor, listened to the squeal of seagulls. His scent was tantalizing … clean and whole. It filled her.

When she turned to look at him, the sea-glass eyes held something ancient she couldn’t name. Whatever it was, it held her fast, similar to the way she reveled in a new artifact someone donated to the museum. She’d spend hours wondering about its history, where its life began.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

She hesitated, then obeyed.

“Picture the house,” he murmured. “Before the storm.”

Ivy saw it: the pale-yellow siding, the oak tree in the yard, her mother’s pots of marigolds along the steps. the porch swing where her father read the Beaufort Gazette and had his morning coffee.

“Now. Picture the storm.”

The clouds twisted and spun. Jagged bursts of lightning illuminated the sky. Wind howled. Branches snapped. Rain beat against the windows like fists. Little Ivy clung to Dumpling as lights flickered, then plunged each household on their street into darkness.

Her breathing faltered.

Adrian’s voice softened. “Go to her. The child. Go now. Kneel beside her.”

Ivy stepped into the memory, slow and trembling. The closet her mother had stuffed them all inside smelled of damp carpet and terror. Her five-year-old self fastened wide eyes on her adult self.

“What do I do?” Ivy whispered.

“Speak.”

Ivy sank into the memory. It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe. This will pass. You’ll survive. I promise.

The small child of her memory flung spindly arms around her neck. Warmth flooded Ivy’s chest. Something inside her cracked, not like a breaking, but an old shell cracking open, allowing her to slip free.

Adrian watched with satisfaction. “There. You’ve taken your first step.” He stood. “I can’t linger. But remember, you are not the same woman who woke up this morning.”

Her cheeks were wet. She hadn’t been aware of tears falling.

“You’re leaving?” Ivy asked, a hollow tug in her chest. “But … the fear.”

He shook his head. “Fear isn’t your enemy. It’s what you do with it.” He paused. “You weathered a storm at five years old that many adults couldn’t handle. Give yourself some credit.”

She blinked. “Will I see you again?”

He gazed across the water, the stiff breeze whipping the waves into froth. “Maybe. When the storms come.”

The breeze picked up, lifting silver strands of his hair. Then, in one slow blink, the light fractured around him and he vanished.

Ivy’s mouth dropped open. She twisted in all directions. He hadn’t ducked behind a building and he hadn’t walked away, he was just … gone.

A faint breath of air brushed her cheeks. His scent—salt, rain, something clean—lingered. Leaves skittered across the sidewalk.

Ivy’s heartbeat echoed in her ears.

The street remained busy as always. People passed, unaware of the man who’d vanished like fog with the rise of the sun. A ferry honked as it cut through the water. Boats bobbed happily in the harbor. A child laughed somewhere nearby. Something miraculous had happened. Fear still lived inside her but without the firm grip. Remnants of something she’d lost stirred. Something stronger than fear.

Ivy sat on the bench for long moments.

A gust of wind caught her hair, tugged at her shirt. This time, she didn’t flinch.