Clara’s boots sank into the damp sand as she walked the shoreline, the salt air sharp in her lungs. The sky hung low, bruised with storm clouds, but she kept moving, feet pressing against the tide’s slow retreat. She hadn’t meant to come back. Not here. Not to this place where the waves whispered secrets she’d long since buried.
The lighthouse stood in the distance, its white paint peeling, a sentinel against the horizon. She’d avoided it for years, but today, something had pulled her toward it—a thread of memory, or maybe desperation. The wind tugged at her coat, and she pulled it tighter, fingers brushing the silver ring on her chain. It was cold, but the weight of it felt familiar, like a promise she’d never kept.
A figure emerged from the fog ahead, tall and still. Clara froze. The man turned, and her breath caught. Thomas. His hair was darker now, streaked with gray, but his eyes—those dark, unyielding eyes—were the same. He hadn’t aged, not really. Or maybe she had.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice low, rough as the tide.
“I didn’t think I’d find you,” she replied, her own voice steady despite the ache in her chest. The sand shifted beneath her feet as she stepped forward. The distance between them felt impossibly small, like a gap that had never truly closed.
He studied her, his jaw tight. “You left.”
“I had to.”
“You didn’t have to.” His words were a blade, sharp and unyielding. She flinched, but didn’t look away. The wind howled, carrying the scent of brine and something else—smoke, maybe, or the faintest trace of lavender. A memory flickered: her mother’s perfume, the way it clung to the air after she’d gone.
“You never waited,” Clara said. “You just… walked away.”
“I tried. You didn’t let me.”
The words hung between them, heavy as the storm gathering overhead. Clara’s fingers curled into her palms. She’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times, imagined the fury, the grief, the clarity. But now, standing here, all she felt was exhaustion.
“You were gone,” she whispered. “For years.”
“I was here,” he countered. “Every day. Every night. You just didn’t look.”
A beat passed. The waves crashed louder, the sky darker. Clara opened her mouth to respond, but the sound of a car engine cut through the air. She turned, heart pounding, as a black sedan rolled up the gravel road behind her. The window rolled down, revealing a man she hadn’t seen in a decade—her father.
“Clara,” he called, his voice strained. “We need to talk.”
She didn’t move. The wind pressed against her back, pushing her toward Thomas, toward the lighthouse, toward the thing she’d spent a lifetime running from. The car door slammed. Her father stepped out, his face lined with something she couldn’t name—regret, maybe, or fear.
“Don’t do this,” he said. “Not here. Not now.”
Clara’s gaze flicked to Thomas. His expression was unreadable, but his hand twitched at his side, a small, restless gesture she’d once found endearing. She wondered if he still felt it too—the pull, the unresolved ache that had never truly gone away.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she said, her voice quiet. “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t see it.”
Her father’s shoulders sagged. The storm broke then, rain slashing down in sheets, soaking them all. Clara didn’t move. She let the water wash over her, letting the weight of it sink into her bones. Thomas stepped closer, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos.
“You’re here,” he said, almost to himself. “After everything.”
“I’m here,” she confirmed. The words felt like a vow, or a surrender. Either way, she didn’t take them back.
The rain fell harder, blurring the world into shapes and sounds. Clara closed her eyes, letting the storm take her. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel alone.
