The salt air tasted like memory when she first saw him. Maren stood at the edge of the dock, her boots sinking into the wet wood as the tide gnawed at the pilings. The lighthouse beam swept across the bay, a slow, deliberate arc that cut through the bruised sky. She’d been waiting for the storm to pass, but the man on the shore didn’t look like a traveler. His coat was too clean, his boots too new. He stood near the rusted chain-link fence that bordered the property, hands in his pockets, watching the water like he’d seen it before.
She didn’t move until he turned. His face was half-hidden by the brim of a hat, but she caught the flicker of something in his eyes—calculation, maybe, or just the same exhaustion she carried every morning when she climbed the lighthouse stairs. The wind tugged at her scarf, and she pulled it tighter. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice flat, though it didn’t sound like her own.
He tilted his head. “I wasn’t sure if this was a place people still went.”
“It’s not.” She stepped forward, the dock creaking beneath her. “This is private property. You need to leave.”
He didn’t move. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a flask. The silver caught the light as he unscrewed it, took a long drink, and offered it to her. Maren didn’t take it. “You’re not from around here,” he said, not a question.
“No.” She glanced at the horizon, where the clouds were thinning. “And neither are you.”
He laughed, low and dry. “Fair enough.”
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of rain and diesel. Maren turned back to the water, her fingers curling into fists. She’d been alone for six months, ever since the accident, and she didn’t need anyone else’s complications. But the man didn’t leave. He stood there, silent, as if waiting for something.
When the first drops fell, he finally spoke. “I’m not looking for anything.”
“Then why are you here?”
He looked at her then, really looked, and for a moment, the storm seemed to pause. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I think I need to find out.”
—
The storm broke two days later. Maren had been inside the lighthouse when the wind started howling, tearing at the windows until the glass trembled. She’d tried to ignore it, to focus on the logbook, but the sound was relentless. When the power went out, she lit a candle and sat at the desk, her fingers tracing the edges of the old map pinned to the wall.
The man—Elias, he’d introduced himself as—was already in the kitchen when she came down. He’d found the canned beans and the stale bread, and now he was leaning against the counter, staring at the storm like it was a puzzle. “You could’ve just asked,” she said, stepping into the room.
He didn’t look up. “I didn’t want to assume.”
She crossed her arms. “You’re full of assumptions.”
“Maybe.” He finally met her gaze, and there was something in it that made her breath catch—something familiar, like a chord she’d forgotten how to play. “But I’m not leaving.”
The words hung between them, heavy as the rain outside. Maren wanted to argue, to remind him of the rules, the boundaries she’d built around herself. But the storm had already taken the last of her strength. She sat down at the table, her hands resting on the scarred wood. “Why?”
Elias hesitated. Then he said, “I don’t know how to stop running.”
The admission felt like a confession. Maren studied him, the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers drummed against the table. She wanted to ask more, but the sound of the wind cutting through the windows stopped her. Instead, she reached for the beans and opened the can.
They ate in silence, the only noise the clink of spoons and the rain pounding against the roof. When the storm finally passed, Elias stood by the window, watching the sky clear. “It’s beautiful,” he said, almost to himself.
Maren didn’t look at him. “You’re not from here, are you?”
He turned, his expression unreadable. “No.”
“Then why stay?”
For a long time, he didn’t answer. Then he said, “I don’t know.”
—
The days after the storm blurred into one another. Elias helped her tend the garden, though he had no idea how to plant seeds. He fixed the broken porch light, though he didn’t know why it mattered. And every evening, they sat on the dock, watching the sun dip below the horizon, the sky painted in hues of orange and violet.
Maren didn’t understand it. How someone could arrive like a storm and stay long enough to become part of the landscape. But Elias didn’t ask for anything—no explanations, no promises. He just was, like the tide or the wind, and that made her uneasy.
One night, as they sat in silence, she finally asked, “What’s your real name?”
He looked at her, surprised. “Elias.”
“That’s not it.”
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he said, “I used to have a different one. But I don’t think I need it anymore.”
Maren frowned. “You don’t know what you need?”
“Not anymore.” He leaned back, his gaze on the water. “I thought I did. But everything I wanted… it wasn’t enough.”
She didn’t know how to respond. So she didn’t. They sat there, the stars blinking above them, until the silence felt like a bridge between them.
—
The argument came on a Thursday. Maren had been up all night, chasing a dream she couldn’t remember, and when she walked into the kitchen, Elias was already there, pouring coffee into two mugs. The smell of it was familiar, comforting.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, though she didn’t mean it.
He didn’t look up. “I know.”
She hesitated, then sat at the table. The coffee was strong, bitter, and she drank it quickly. “You’re staying longer than you planned.”
“Maybe.” He finally looked at her, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t name. “I don’t know when I’ll leave.”
Maren’s throat tightened. “You can’t just… stay.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not fair to me. To you.”
He stood, the chair scraping against the floor. “You think I don’t know that?” His voice was quiet, but it cut through the room. “I’m not looking for a forever, Maren. I just… I need this.”
She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that nothing was permanent, that people left. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she said, “Then why me?”
Elias didn’t answer. He just stared at her, and for the first time, she saw the fear in his eyes.
—
The night before he left, they sat on the dock again. The air was thick with the scent of salt and blooming jasmine, and the stars were out in full force. Maren didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her hands were numb, her thoughts tangled in a knot she couldn’t untie.
Elias finally broke the silence. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t look at him. “You don’t have to be.”
“I do.” He turned to face her, his expression raw. “I thought I could stay, but I can’t. Not like this.”
Maren’s chest hurt. “Then why did you come?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought… maybe I thought you’d help me find what I’m looking for.”
“And if I couldn’t?”
“Then I’d have to keep running.”
The words hung between them, and Maren felt something inside her crack. She wanted to ask him to stay, to beg him not to go, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she said, “I’ll miss you.”
Elias didn’t respond. He just looked at her, his eyes filled with something she couldn’t name. Then he stood, brushing off his pants, and walked away without another word.
Maren sat there until the stars faded and the sky turned gray. The dock creaked beneath her, the waves lapping at the shore like they were whispering secrets she’d never understand.
—
The days after Elias left were quiet, too quiet. Maren went through the motions—tending the garden, checking the lighthouse, writing in her logbook—but nothing felt real. The storm had taken more than just the power; it had taken something from her, something she couldn’t name.
She thought about him every day, about the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d stayed. And she wondered if he was still running, if he’d found what he was looking for.
Then, one morning, she found a letter on the kitchen table. It was plain, no return address, just her name written in careful script. She unfolded it slowly, her hands shaking.
“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” it read. “You taught me something I didn’t know I needed. I don’t know if I’ll ever find my way back, but I’ll always remember this place. And you.”
Maren sat there, the letter in her hands, and for the first time in months, she felt something shift inside her. She didn’t know if he’d come back, if he’d ever find his way. But she knew one thing: she’d never forget him.
