The first time she saw him again, the sea was a blade of glass beneath the sun. Mira stood at the edge of the dock, her boots sinking into the wet wood as the wind tugged at her coat. The harbor smelled of brine and diesel, but beneath that, something sharper—salt and memory. She hadn’t meant to come back. Not after ten years, not after the letter with the bloodstained envelope. But the lawyer’s voice had been too precise, too calm, and she’d needed to see it for herself.
He was there, of course. Always there. Kneeling on the deck of his boat, wrench in hand, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The sun glinted off the metal, and for a moment, she thought he’d turned into someone else—someone younger, less worn. But then he looked up, and it was him: the scar above his brow, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. She hadn’t spoken to him since the night her father died, since the last time she’d seen the lighthouse’s beam go dark.
“You’re late,” he said, not looking at her. His voice was a low hum, like the tide against the rocks.
She stepped forward. “I didn’t know if I’d be welcome.”
He stood, brushing sawdust from his hands. “You’re always welcome.” His words were a lie, and they both knew it.
The dock creaked as she followed him into the boat’s hold. The air was thick with the scent of fish and oil, but Mira’s eyes were on the wall behind him—where her father’s tools still hung, rusted and forgotten. A hammer, a chisel, a set of calipers. She’d last seen them when he’d been alive, when the lighthouse had still been his obsession. Now it was just a skeleton of iron and glass, its light extinguished years ago.
“You didn’t answer my calls,” he said, as if that explained everything.
She turned to face him. “You didn’t answer mine.”
A beat passed. The engine of a nearby boat roared to life, drowning out the gulls. He looked at her then, really looked, and something in his expression shifted—something like regret, or maybe relief. “I heard about the letter,” he said. “The one from your mom.”
Mira’s throat tightened. “You read it?”
“I didn’t have to. I knew what it said.” His voice was steady, but his hands were clenched into fists. “You left. Again.”
She stepped closer, the space between them shrinking. “I didn’t leave you. I left because I had to.”
“You always had to,” he said, bitter as the sea. “Even when it wasn’t true.”
The words hung between them, sharp and raw. Mira wanted to argue, to explain, but the dock beneath her feet felt unstable, like the ground had shifted under her. She thought of the nights she’d spent in the city, staring at her phone, wondering if he’d ever forgive her for walking away.
“What happened that night?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He looked away. “You know what happened.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant cry of a gull. Then he exhaled, slow and heavy, and stepped back. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
She followed him up the ladder, the metal cold beneath her hands. The lighthouse stood before them, its windows dark, its door ajar. The air inside was colder, heavier, like the weight of old secrets. She hesitated at the threshold. “You still keep it locked?”
“It’s not mine anymore,” he said. “But I can’t bring myself to let anyone else in.”
Inside, the walls were lined with tools, photographs, and yellowed papers. Mira’s eyes landed on a stack of letters—her mother’s handwriting, her father’s, and one in between that didn’t belong to either of them. Her breath caught. “What is this?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he picked up a photo—a younger version of them, laughing on the dock, her hair wild in the wind. “We were going to leave,” he said. “After the storm. But your dad…” His voice trailed off.
Mira’s hands trembled. “What happened?”
He turned to her, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t name. “He found out about the letters. About us.”
The truth hit her like a wave. “You loved me,” she whispered.
“I still do,” he said, and the words were a punch to her chest.
She wanted to run, to scream, to break something. But instead, she stepped closer, until their breaths mingled in the cold air. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought you’d leave again,” he said. “Just like your mom.”
The words were a knife, but she didn’t flinch. “I’m not her.”
For a moment, they just stood there, the silence between them thick with everything unsaid. Then he reached for her, his fingers brushing hers, and the world shifted. The lighthouse creaked, the wind howled, and somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled.
Mira didn’t know if it was the storm or her heart, but she stepped into his touch, and for the first time in a decade, she felt something close to peace.