The next morning, Clara walked the shoreline.
The tide was low, revealing a ragged path of seaweed and scattered shells. She needed the rhythm of her footsteps on wet sand, the cool salt air against her skin. After the notebook, after the last words of a man who loved and let go, the world felt both heavier and more forgiving.
She kept her eyes low, watching for sea glass.
Gran used to collect it—kept it in an old mason jar on her windowsill. Clara remembered the way sunlight would catch on the soft green and blue pieces, turning them into tiny oracles.
She bent down, fingers brushing a small piece of pale blue.
It was smooth, oval, the kind of shape that felt like it had been made for a pocket. She turned it over in her hand.
"Looks like you found something," Elias said behind her.
Clara turned, smiling. "A treasure."
He joined her, hands tucked into his coat pockets. "Funny, isn't it? How something broken can become something beautiful just by being worn down by time."
Clara looked at the glass again, then back at him. "Or maybe time just teaches us how to see the beauty that was always there."
They walked in silence for a few minutes, the gulls wheeling above them. The tide pulled at their ankles, then receded.
"I've been thinking about staying," Clara said suddenly.
Elias stopped. "Here? In town?"
She nodded. "Not forever. Just… for now. There's still so much of her I don't know. Of me, too."
Elias didn't hide the smile. "You'd be welcome."
There was something in his voice—quiet, hopeful—that made her heart tilt. She studied his profile, the way the morning light softened his edges.
"Tell me something real," she said.
He blinked, then laughed softly. "Real?"
"Yeah. About you. Not about Gran. Not about the past. Just… you."
He looked out over the water. "Alright. When I was eight, I wanted to be a lighthouse keeper. I thought if I lived inside one, I'd never lose my way."
Clara smiled. "Did it work?"
"I never got the job," he said, glancing at her. "But maybe I still found the light."
Their eyes held for a moment. And something shifted.
Not the dramatic kind of shift. Not the crashing wave. Just a quiet tide change. A breath. A space made larger.
Clara looked down at the sea glass again, then pressed it into his hand.
"For your collection," she said.
He closed his fingers around it. "You're sure?"
"Positive," she said. "Broken things belong with those who see their worth."