The Art of Memories

Prologo

Demi didn’t know what to do but paint.

The Beltrans had been generous enough to provide her food, shelter, and clothes. The staff at Dalton Shores never forgot to bring food to her hotel room every day, always knocking gently as if afraid to startle her. They even insisted on taking her clothes to the laundry, returning them neatly folded and smelling faintly of sea salt and fabric softener. At least for six days, that had been her life. Six quiet, floating days. She was a guest, but she wasn’t even being charged. It made her stomach twist every time someone gave her a kind smile. She didn’t want to be a burden anymore, didn’t want to be pitied. It was about time she did something.

The morning sea breeze hit her skin, feeling her hair rise. She ignored the chill, occupied with mixing red and white acrylic on a palette. She wanted to stop loaning things she used daily from the resort. Things like the plaid yellow beach mat she and her materials were sitting on. God, even the art materials she used: easel, pencils, erasers, paintbrushes, paints, canvases–everything. Even the gorgeous, floral gartered summer dress she wore–tags already removed. Everything her hand touched belonged to someone else. She bit her lower lip. God, even her memories felt borrowed.

The ocean roared softly in front of her. It was endless and blue and deceptive. But it seemed peaceful this morning. Too peaceful. As if it had never swallowed anything whole. She looked up from her canvas, staring at the blue sea longer than necessary. Her chest tightened. An image of a boat and a man flashed. Someone calling her name…

She blinked hard and forced herself back to the canvas. Paint, Demi. She was sure her head already contained cracks when she kept racking her brain on how she even got here: The Dalton Shores Resort, owned by the Beltrans. Right. At first, she wasn’t sure if she could trust Donina Beltran with the information. Honey, we thought you were dead. A couple of our fishermen found you, and they called my husband and son, Donina had told her gently. But then everyone kept telling her that they just found her lying on the shore when she asked around. One piece of information she could remember, thankfully, was her name. Demi. Not very helpful with finding answers on how she got here, but at least she had an identity. At the very least, she could say she didn’t borrow that.

“Careful.”

A deep voice came from behind her. She got startled, her peaceful morning now disturbed. She rolled her eyes.

“Careful of what?” she asked, still painting.

“The tide rises faster on this side.” She glanced over her shoulder.

A man stood a few feet away. Tall. Barefoot. Hands tucked casually into the pockets of his khaki shorts like he wasn’t intruding. He didn’t look like staff. He looked like he owned the horizon. She looked away first.

“I’ll move if it reaches me,” she said. He stepped closer, but was careful not to get too close.

“You won’t notice until it does.”

She finally faced him fully, “You’re Mrs. Beltran’s son, right?” He nodded once, “Donny. Franco Donovan, technically. But only my mother uses that when she’s angry.” A corner of her mouth twitched despite herself.

“Demi.”

“I know.”

She blinked. “You do?”

“You signed your name on the canvas yesterday,” he said calmly. “You left it outside the restaurant.” She stared at him.

“Are you stalking me?”

“Observing.” He corrected it lightly.

“That’s worse.”

He smiled then. Unbothered and slow. “I live here. I tend to notice what’s happening on my own beach.” Ah. There it was. “You sure do.” That explained the staff. The generosity. The quiet glances from him at the restaurant. She dipped her brush back into the paint.

“I’m going to pay for everything, by the way,” she said.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” He studied her for a moment, trying to understand her.

“You can’t even access the billing system,” he said. “My father would block it.”

“Then I’ll sell paintings.”

“To tourists?”

“Yes.” Her tone was sharper than she intended. But Donny didn’t seem to mind. He crouched down now, closer to her level. The ocean breeze shifted, carrying salt and faint citrus from his skin.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?”

“And you’re nosy.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

She glanced at him again. He wasn’t mocking her. He wasn’t pitying her. He looked… curious. Like she was a puzzle.

“I just don’t like feeling useless.” He carefully sat down on the sand, propping himself up using his hands and crossing his legs.

“You’re not useless.”

She let out a quiet, humorless huff. “I don’t even know how I ended up here.”

His jaw tightened. The ocean roared louder for a second, as if filling the silence for him.

“You were lucky,” he said. Lucky. Like that word should be right. Silence fell between them for a moment until he spoke.

“You always paint the horizon first?” he asked. She blinked. “What?” He nodded toward her canvas. “You start with the line where the sea meets the sky. Most people begin with the foreground.”

“That’s very observant for someone who claims he’s not watching me.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t watching.” Her heart skipped a beat. She rolled her eyes lightly and dipped her brush into the paint again. “Maybe I just like knowing where things end.”

“Or where they begin,” he countered. She didn’t answer. The sea softly kissed the shore. He shifted slightly in the sand. She glanced at him again. He wasn’t mocking her or pitying her. He was watching her the way someone watches a cliff edge. Aware that one wrong step could mean something irreversible.

“You’ve been out here every morning,” he said. “Does the salt air help?”

She frowned slightly. “Help with what?”

“Headaches. Dizziness. You had both the first day.” Her brush slowed.

“You’ve been keeping track?”

“Yes.” No hesitation in his tone. And not even an apology.

She studied him. “Well, that’s a little too observant of you.”

“You passed out on this beach,” he replied evenly, his gaze boring into the ocean. “Forgive me for paying attention.”

She forced herself to breathe normally. “I’m fine.”

“You flinch every time the waves get louder.” Her hand froze.

“I do not–”

“You do.”

He wasn’t arguing. He wasn’t accusing. He was stating an observation. The kind of observation that meant he’d been watching closely. The air shifted between them.

“I’m not afraid of the water,”

“Good,” a pause.

“But your body hasn’t decided that yet.” That landed heavier than she expected. She dipped her brush back into the paint to avoid his eyes.

“You talk like I’m fragile,” she said in gritted teeth.

“I talk like you almost didn’t wake up.”

The words were quiet. But sharp. She finally looked at him fully. There was no drama in his expression. Just controlled intensity. “You don’t even know me,” she said.

“I know enough.”

Her heartbeat quickened. “And what’s that?”

“That you don’t like asking for help. That you force yourself to sit closer to the water every day. That you act like you owe everyone something.” He leaned a little closer, “And that you haven’t once asked how close you were to not making it.”

The brush slipped slightly in her hand. “Because I don’t want to know,” she admitted.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

The simplicity of that response surprised her, considering he’d asked almost a hundred questions already within the few minutes that they were together. “You’re not going to push?” she asked.

“I’m not going to let you hurt yourself,” he corrected. Something in her chest tightened. He almost sounded as if he wanted to protect her.

“Do you think I’m going to walk into the ocean?” she asked quietly.

“I think,” he said, gaze flicking briefly back to the water, “that people who wake up without memories sometimes try to find answers in the wrong places.” She swallowed. The tide crept closer again. This time, he didn’t wait. He reached for the corner of the mat and dragged it a few inches back. Deliberate and careful, as if he’d done this a thousand times. Her hand brushed his wrist as she steadied the easel.

It was warm. And strong.

Real.

“You don’t have to guard me,” she murmured.

“I know.”

“But you’re going to anyway.”

“Yes.” He smiled, and his voice was filled with certainty. The wind lifted her hair again, and without thinking, he reached out, then stopped himself halfway. His hand hovered in the air between them. He lowered it slowly.

“Are you always like this?” she asked softly.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re responsible for everyone.”

He held her gaze. “Only the ones I find on my shore.” The ocean crashed behind them. And for the first time since she woke up at Dalton Shores, she didn’t feel watched. She felt… protected. Which was somehow more dangerous.