The first time Jordan saw Clara, she was kneading dough in a sunlit kitchen, her sleeves rolled to the elbows, flour dusting her forearms like snow. The smell of cinnamon and burnt sugar hung in the air, mingling with the briny wind that seeped through the open window. Jordan stood at the threshold, notebook in hand, watching her stir a bowl with a wooden spoon—long, deliberate motions that felt like a ritual. Clara’s head tilted slightly, as if sensing the weight of his gaze, but she didn’t look up. She just kept stirring.
“That’s not how you mix the batter,” Jordan said, stepping forward. His voice cracked on the last word, too loud in the quiet room.
Clara froze. The spoon clinked against the side of the bowl. “It’s called a bread machine,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. Her pupils were flecked with gold, like sunlight trapped in glass. “But I prefer doing it this way.” She gestured to the bowl, where the dough had already begun to rise, soft and pillowy.
Jordan shrugged. “I’ve seen bread machines make better loaves.”
“They don’t have soul,” Clara replied, wiping her hands on her apron. “Or patience.” She turned back to the counter, rolling out the dough with a practiced motion. The flour crunched under her palms, and Jordan noticed the calluses on her fingers—rough, worn, but not unkind.
The bell above the door jingled as another customer entered. Clara didn’t glance up. “Welcome to Marrow’s Bakery. Can I get you something?” Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like a blade honed too sharp.
Jordan lingered, watching her work. The kitchen was small, cramped with the scent of yeast and the faint tang of lemon from the cleaning supplies. Sunlight slanted through the window, catching the dust motes that swirled in the air. Clara’s movements were precise, almost mechanical, but there was a rhythm to them—like she’d done this a thousand times before.
“You’re not from around here,” she said suddenly, without turning.
Jordan hesitated. “No. I’m here for the festival.” He gestured to the flyer taped to the counter, which read: “Annual Seaside Harvest Festival – October 12th.” The date was two days away.
Clara snorted. “That’s not a festival. That’s a cover for the town’s annual disaster.” She tossed the dough into a pan, then wiped her hands again. “They’re trying to forget what happened last year.”
Jordan frowned. “What happened?”
She met his eyes then, and for a moment, something shifted. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something—pain, maybe, or memory. “Nothing,” she said. “Just a storm.” She turned back to the oven, her shoulders stiff.
The bell jingled again. This time, it was a woman in her sixties, bundled in a thick coat. Clara’s face softened as she greeted her, sliding a slice of pie across the counter without needing to ask. The woman nodded, muttering something about “the best apple pie this side of the coast,” and left.
Jordan waited until the door swung shut. “You’re from here,” he said.
Clara didn’t answer immediately. She leaned against the counter, her arms crossed. “Yeah. I am.” Her voice was quieter now, almost a whisper. “But that doesn’t mean I like it.” She pushed off the counter and walked toward the back door. “You should probably go.”
“Wait,” Jordan said, stepping forward. “What was the storm?”
Clara stopped. The wind whistled through the open doorway, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed. “It wasn’t a storm,” she said. “It was a warning.” She didn’t look back as she walked out, leaving Jordan standing in the silence of the bakery, the smell of cinnamon still clinging to the air.
—
The festival started at dawn, but Jordan was up before sunrise. He stood on the edge of the town square, watching as locals set up stalls beneath bright blue tents. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of roasted chestnuts and woodsmoke. A few children ran past, laughing as they chased each other around the central fountain, which had been decorated with strings of lights and fresh flowers.
He hadn’t seen Clara since their encounter at the bakery, but he kept thinking about her—about the way she’d said “warning” like it was a secret she wasn’t ready to share. He found himself wandering toward the bakery again, hoping to catch her before the festival began. The door was locked, but the window was open, and through it, he could see Clara inside, arranging pastries on a tray.
She didn’t notice him at first. Her back was to the window as she worked, her movements deliberate, almost ritualistic. Jordan hesitated, then knocked lightly on the glass.
Clara turned. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re persistent,” she said, opening the door just enough to stick her head out. “What do you want?”
“I need answers,” Jordan said. “About the storm.” He stepped closer, his voice low. “You said it wasn’t a storm. What was it?”
Clara’s expression hardened. “It’s not your place to ask.” She started to close the door, but Jordan blocked it with his hand.
“Then why did you tell me anything at all?” he pressed. “Why even mention it?”
For a moment, she didn’t answer. Then she sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Because I’m tired of pretending,” she said. “Tired of watching everyone else move on while I’m stuck in the same place.” She looked at him, her eyes searching his face. “But you don’t understand what it’s like here. You’re just passing through.”
“Maybe I am,” Jordan admitted. “But I want to understand.”
Clara studied him, her lips pressing into a thin line. Then she stepped back, pulling the door open wider. “Come in,” she said. “But don’t expect me to explain everything. Some things aren’t meant to be understood.” She turned away, heading toward the back of the bakery. “If you’re going to stay, you’ll have to learn the rules.”
—
The festival was in full swing by noon. Jordan moved through the crowd, his notebook tucked under his arm. The square was alive with color—bright banners fluttering in the wind, the scent of fried dough and grilled corn filling the air. Laughter echoed from the games booths, where children chased each other with balloons and prizes. A band played a lively tune, their instruments clinking and strumming in perfect rhythm.
He found Clara near the edge of the square, her arms crossed as she watched the crowd. She was wearing a long, navy-blue coat, and her hair was tied back, revealing the sharp lines of her face. Jordan approached slowly, unsure of what to say.
“You’re still here,” she said without turning.
“I figured I’d stick around,” he replied. “At least until you explain what the storm was.”
Clara turned to face him, her expression unreadable. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“Not when there’s something worth knowing,” Jordan said. “And I think this is worth knowing.”
She studied him for a long moment, then sighed. “Come with me,” she said, turning on her heel. She led him through the crowd, weaving between stalls and people until they reached the edge of the square, where the tide was lapping at the sand.
The wind was stronger here, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed. Jordan could see the waves rolling in, their crests breaking against the shore. Clara stopped beside a weathered bench, its wooden slats worn smooth by time.
“This is where it happened,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “The storm. The night everything changed.” She sat down, her back straight, her hands resting in her lap. “I was twelve. My parents were killed in the flood. The town tried to move on, but they never really did.”
Jordan sat beside her, his heart pounding. “Why didn’t anyone talk about it?”
Clara shook her head. “Because it wasn’t just a storm. It was a warning.” She looked out at the water, her eyes distant. “They say the sea gives and takes, but no one listens. My parents tried to warn people, but no one believed them. And when the tide came, it took everything.” Her voice wavered, but she didn’t look away. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to forget, but it never leaves me.”
—
The festival ended at sunset, and the square emptied out slowly, the last of the lanterns flickering as they were extinguished. Jordan stood with Clara on the edge of the beach, watching the sky turn shades of orange and purple. The air was cooler now, carrying the scent of salt and the faintest trace of smoke from the bonfires that had burned all day.
“You didn’t have to tell me all that,” Jordan said, his voice low.
Clara looked at him, her eyes reflecting the fading light. “I know.” She hesitated, then added, “But I needed to say it out loud. To someone who wasn’t just passing through.”
Jordan studied her, the weight of her words settling in his chest. “What happens now?”
Clara didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper. She unfolded it carefully, revealing a faded photograph of a young girl standing on the same beach, her arms wrapped around a man and woman who looked like they were laughing. The sky behind them was clear, the sea calm.
“That’s my parents,” she said softly. “And me.” She folded the photo again, tucking it back into her pocket. “I’ve kept it hidden for years. I didn’t want to remember. But today… today I felt like I could.”
—
The next morning, Jordan found Clara at the bakery again, her hands deep in a bowl of dough. The scent of yeast and sugar filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of sea salt from the wind that drifted in through the open window.
“You’re still here,” she said without looking up.
“I am,” Jordan replied. “But I don’t know how long I’ll stay.”
Clara finally looked at him, her expression unreadable. “That’s okay.” She turned back to the dough, her fingers working it with a practiced rhythm. “You’re not like the others. You didn’t come here just to escape something.”
Jordan hesitated. “What’s it like here?”
Clara smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s quiet. Too quiet. But sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.” She rolled the dough into a ball, then placed it in a pan. “You should go, before the festival starts again.”
“I don’t want to,” Jordan said. “Not yet.”
Clara looked at him, her eyes searching his face. Then she stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then stay.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them was thick, charged with something unspoken. Then Jordan reached out, his fingers brushing against hers, and the world around them seemed to fade away.
—
The festival returned the next year, but this time, the square was different. The tents were brighter, the laughter louder, and the air was filled with the scent of roasted chestnuts and sweet pastries. Jordan stood at the edge of the crowd, watching as Clara moved through the square with ease, her hands dusted with flour, her eyes alight with something he’d never seen before.
He didn’t know what had changed—only that it had. And as he watched her laugh, truly laugh, for the first time in years, he knew he wasn’t just passing through anymore.
