The bakery smelled like cinnamon and regret. Clara pulled the oven mitts from her hands, leaving them on the counter where they’d been since dawn. Outside, the sun slanted low over the rooftops of Willow Creek, painting the cobblestones in gold. She didn’t need the light to know what time it was—she could hear it in the silence, in the way the air hung thick with the scent of burnt sugar and something else, something sharp she couldn’t place.
The bell above the door jingled. Clara turned, expecting a customer, but the man standing there was no stranger. His coat was too long, his boots scuffed from a road that hadn’t been paved in years. He didn’t smile, but his eyes—dark as spilled ink—found hers and held.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said. His voice was a low hum, like a guitar string stretched too tight.
Clara crossed her arms. “You’re two hours north of the highway. What are you doing here?”
He stepped closer, the scent of leather and rain clinging to him. “I’m not sure I’m looking for who I think I am.” His hand hovered near his coat pocket, but he didn’t reach for it. “But I know where I need to be.”
The bell jingled again, and a woman in a red sweater darted in, her laughter bright as a bell. Clara exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing. “That’s my sister, Lila. She’s here for the lavender scones.”
The man’s gaze flicked to the woman, then back to Clara. “I didn’t come for scones.” His voice was steady, but there was something in his posture—a rigidity that didn’t match the easy way he stood. “I came for you.”
Clara’s breath caught. She hadn’t heard that phrase in years, not since the last time someone had said it to her with a promise that never came. “You don’t even know me,” she said, but the words felt hollow, like a lie she’d told herself too many times to believe.
The man didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was yellowed at the edges, the ink smudged. Clara’s fingers itched to take it, but she held her ground. “What is this?”
“A map,” he said. “Or a reminder. I don’t know which yet.” He stepped back, his expression unreadable. “I’ll be at the inn. If you want to talk, come find me.” Then he turned, his coat flaring like a shadow, and walked out into the dusk.
Clara stared at the door long after he was gone. The scones were still warm, but she didn’t reach for them. Instead, she picked up the paper, her fingers tracing the edge of the map. It was old, the lines faded, but she recognized the route—every turn, every bend. It led to the old lighthouse on the edge of town, the one they’d all forgotten about after the storm.
She didn’t know why he’d come. Or why she felt the pull of it, like a tide she couldn’t fight. But as the sun dipped below the horizon and the first stars blinked to life, Clara closed the bakery and stepped out into the night, the map clutched in her hand like a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep.
The lighthouse stood alone, its white paint peeling, its beacon dark. Clara hesitated at the base of the stairs, the wind tugging at her coat. She could turn back, say it was a mistake, that she didn’t need this. But the thought felt like a lie she couldn’t breathe.
She climbed the stairs, each step creaking beneath her. At the top, the door was ajar. Inside, the air was still, thick with dust and memory. And there he was, standing by the window, his back to her.
“You came,” he said, not turning.
Clara swallowed. “I didn’t have a choice.” She stepped closer, the map still in her hand. “What is this? Why did you bring me here?”
He turned then, his face half in shadow. “This is where it started,” he said. “Where we both lost something.” His voice was quiet, but there was an ache in it that made Clara’s chest tighten.
She didn’t understand. Not yet. But as the wind howled through the broken window, she felt it—the weight of the past, the pull of something she couldn’t name. And for the first time in years, she let herself feel it.
“Tell me,” she said.
He looked at her, really looked, and for a moment, the world stopped. The wind died. The stars blinked above. And Clara knew—this was where the story began, not with a promise, but with a choice.
The man stepped closer, his hand outstretched. “It’s not too late,” he said. “Whatever it was, whatever we lost… we can find it again.” His voice was steady, but there was a vulnerability in his eyes that made Clara’s heart stutter.
She didn’t know if she believed him. But as the first rain of the season began to fall, she took his hand, and together they stepped into the unknown, the map forgotten at their feet.
The lighthouse stood silent behind them, its beacon waiting. And somewhere in the dark, the story of June was just beginning.
