The air smelled of burnt sugar and rain by the time Clara found the letter. It lay beneath a stack of flour sacks in the back room of her father’s bakery, its edges yellowed and brittle. She traced the ink with her thumb, the words blurring as the late afternoon sun slanted through the cracked window. *I’ll be there at sundown.* No signature. Just the familiar script she hadn’t seen since high school, when he’d scribbled notes during history class and passed them between rows of desks. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the hammer of her own heartbeat against her ribs. The bell above the door jingled. “Clara?” Her mother’s voice cut through the haze. “You’re late for the delivery.” She tucked the letter into her apron pocket, the paper whispering against her skin like a secret. The bakery smelled of cinnamon and something sharper—fear, maybe. Or hope.
The truck idled at the curb when she stepped outside, its engine rumbling like a wounded animal. Luke leaned against the fender, his leather jacket creaking as he pushed off. He looked older, the way all men did when they stayed in one place too long. His hair was shorter than she remembered, and there was a scar along his jawline, thin and pale. “You got my note,” he said, his voice low, like it always had been. She nodded, her throat tight. The air between them was thick with the weight of everything unsaid. “I didn’t think you’d come.” He studied her, his eyes dark and unyielding. “You never did.” A car honked behind them, and the moment shattered. He turned toward the truck, but not before she caught the flicker of something in his expression—regret, maybe. Or relief. “I’ll be at the docks,” he said. “If you want to talk.” She watched him go, her fingers curling around the letter until it crumpled in her palm. The bakery’s door slammed behind her, and she didn’t look back.
The docks reeked of salt and diesel, the air thick with the brine of the harbor. Luke stood near the edge of the pier, his back to her, as if he’d been waiting for hours. The sunset bled across the water, painting the sky in shades of rust and violet. Clara hesitated, her boots clicking against the wooden planks. “You left,” she said, her voice barely louder than the waves. He turned, his face half-shadowed. “I had to.” She stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—cypress and something smoky—filling her nostrils. “You didn’t even say goodbye.” His jaw tightened. “I thought you’d hate me for it.” The words hung between them, raw and unfiltered. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but all she could do was breathe in the salt and the memory of him. “What happened?” she asked, her voice cracking. He exhaled, long and slow, like he was releasing a breath he’d been holding for years. “Your sister,” he said. “She told me you didn’t want to see me again.” Clara’s stomach dropped. “That’s not true.” He looked at her then, really looked, and she saw the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his hands trembled slightly at his sides. “I believed her,” he admitted. “And I wasn’t ready to fight for you.” The wind picked up, carrying the sound of gulls and the distant wail of a ship’s horn. Clara stepped closer, her pulse roaring in her ears. “I never stopped waiting,” she said. “Even after you left.” He reached for her, his fingers brushing hers, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the touch of his skin against hers. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the pier. “Then let’s not wait anymore,” he said, his voice steady now. “Whatever this is, I’m here.” She nodded, tears blurring her vision. The harbor stretched before them, endless and unknown, but for the first time in years, she wasn’t afraid to step into it.
The bakery was quiet when Clara returned, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the faint tang of lemon cleaner. Her mother stood by the counter, wiping down the registers with a rag that smelled of ammonia. “You’re late,” she said, not looking up. Clara set her apron on the hook, her hands still trembling from the encounter. “I had to go somewhere.” Her mother finally met her gaze, her eyes sharp and searching. “That man,” she said, her voice low. “He’s trouble.” Clara opened her mouth to protest, but her mother held up a hand. “I saw him outside. Knew the second I saw his face what he was here for.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever loved him?” Clara stiffened. “What are you talking about?” Her mother’s expression softened, but there was pain in it too. “Your sister. She loved him too. More than she should have.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. Clara shook her head. “No. That’s not—” “I saw the way she looked at him,” her mother interrupted. “The way he looked at her. And I saw what it did to you.” Clara backed away, the room spinning. “You never told me.” Her mother’s eyes glistened. “I didn’t think it mattered. Not anymore.” The bell above the door jingled again, and Clara turned to see Luke standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. “I’ll wait,” he said. “If you need time.” Clara looked at her mother, then at Luke, and for the first time, she didn’t know what to say. The bakery smelled of flour and memory, of love and loss, and Clara knew whatever came next would change everything.
The night sky was a canvas of stars by the time Clara found herself back at the docks. The water was still, reflecting the moon like a silver mirror. Luke sat on the edge of the pier, his legs dangling over the side, as if he’d been waiting for her all along. She hesitated, the weight of her mother’s words pressing against her chest. “You didn’t have to come back,” she said, her voice quiet. He turned, his eyes catching the moonlight. “I did.” She stepped closer, the wood beneath her boots creaking. “Why?” He stood, his movements slow, deliberate. “Because I never stopped loving you,” he said. The words hung in the air, heavy and true. Clara’s breath caught. “But your sister—” “She was a mistake,” he interrupted. “A stupid, selfish mistake.” She looked at him, really looked, and saw the man she’d always known beneath the layers of regret and pain. “I don’t know if I can forgive that,” she whispered. He reached for her, his hand brushing hers. “Then don’t,” he said. “But let me try again. Let me prove it to you.” The wind shifted, carrying the scent of salt and something sweeter—hope. Clara closed her eyes, the weight of the past pressing against her, and for the first time in years, she felt something shift inside her. “Okay,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But this time, don’t let go.” He pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her like a promise. The stars above them glittered, and for the first time in a long time, Clara felt whole.
