The first time she saw him again, the sea was a blade of silver under the sun. Clara’s boots sank into the damp sand as she walked past the rusted fishing boats, their hulls listing like old men too tired to stand. The air smelled of brine and diesel, of salt-crusted nets left to dry in the wind. She hadn’t meant to come back. Not after seven years, not after the letters that had gone unanswered, not after the way the town had whispered her name like a secret she’d never wanted to keep.
He was there, as if he’d been waiting for her. Eli stood at the edge of the dock, his hands tucked into the pockets of his oilskin coat, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The same horizon she’d watched from her childhood bedroom window, the same one that had driven her away. His hair was darker now, streaked with gray at the temples, and his shoulders were broader, though his posture still carried the weight of someone who’d spent too many hours hauling nets through the cold.
Clara stopped a few feet away. The wind tugged at her scarf, a pale blue thing she’d bought in Paris, now frayed at the edges. She wondered if he remembered the last time she’d worn it—how it had fluttered around her like a flag during the storm that had taken her father. Eli turned then, as if sensing her presence, and their eyes met. His expression was unreadable, but his fingers curled into a fist at his side.
“You’re back,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She nodded. The words felt heavy in her throat. “I needed to see it again.”
“The town? Or him?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped closer, her boots crunching over shells. The dock creaked beneath them, the sound familiar yet foreign. Eli’s eyes were the same color as the sky on a summer morning—light, but with a depth that made her feel like she was falling. She’d once told him that his eyes were like the sea, and he’d laughed, saying the sea was dangerous. Now she wondered if he’d been trying to warn her.
“You didn’t have to come back,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.
“I know.”
A gull cried overhead, sharp and sudden. Clara looked at the water, where the waves lapped against the pilings with a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat. She remembered the last time she’d been here, how she’d stood on this very dock, her mother’s hand in hers, and promised to stay. But the world had called her away, and she’d gone without looking back.
Eli stepped forward, his boots matching hers in the sand. “You left,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation, but something sharper—like a wound that had never fully healed.
“I had to.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The words hung between them, raw and unspoken. Clara turned to face him, her breath catching at the look in his eyes. There was anger there, yes, but also something else—something she couldn’t name. She thought of the letters she’d written, the ones she’d never sent. Of the nights she’d dreamed of this moment, only to wake up with her hands empty.
“You didn’t wait,” she said finally.
“I couldn’t.”
The silence that followed was thick, like the fog that rolled in off the coast at dawn. Clara felt the weight of it in her chest, a pressure that made her ribs ache. She wanted to say something else, to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she looked at him—the man he’d become, the boy she’d left behind—and felt the truth settle in her bones.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Eli’s jaw tightened. For a moment, she thought he might walk away. But then he reached out, his fingers brushing against hers, and the touch was like a spark in the dark. The world narrowed to that single point of contact, to the way his hand felt against hers, warm and real. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this until now.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” he said, his voice barely above a breath.
“I know.”
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of salt and possibility. Clara didn’t look away. She let the silence stretch between them, not as a barrier, but as a bridge. The sea crashed against the shore, steady and unyielding, and for the first time in years, she felt something shift inside her. Not the sharp ache of loss, but the quiet hum of something new.
Eli’s hand didn’t leave hers.
Later, they would talk about the past—about what had been lost, what had been gained. They would argue and laugh, cry and reconcile. But in this moment, standing on the edge of the dock with the wind in their hair and the sun on their skin, they were exactly where they needed to be.
The sea was still a blade of silver under the sun.
