After my father’s death, I rented a quiet beach house to escape the overwhelming grief and find some peace. But soon, the owner, Nikolas, began acting strangely, knowing far too much about me—things I never told him. His unsettling behavior made me question everything, leaving me feeling more afraid than ever.

I had lost my father, the one person who had always been there for me. The pain was unbearable, and though it would eventually dull, I knew it would never truly leave. Dad had always loved the beach house, a place he had promised we’d visit together. But I went alone, trying to find some closure in the place he had cherished.

Nikolas welcomed me, but there was something off. His kindness seemed too perfect, his actions eerily thoughtful—he knew about my favorite fruits, my allergies, and even my love for the sea. But the most unsettling part was when he left a photo of my father with a woman I didn’t recognize. I confronted him, and the truth came tumbling out—Nikolas wasn’t just the owner; he was my half-brother, the product of an affair my father had kept secret.

The revelation was a punch to the gut. My father, the man I thought I knew, had lived a double life, hidden away in this very house. Nikolas and I shared the same father, but for years, I had been kept in the dark. I didn’t know what to feel—betrayal, shock, anger—but in that moment, I realized that sometimes the people closest to us have hidden lives we may never fully understand. The beach house, once a place of solace, would now be a constant reminder of secrets kept too long.