The road to Dawnridge curved along the cliffs like a ribbon unraveling into the sea. Lena Hart sat behind the wheel of her weathered silver hatchback, eyes heavy, fingers clenched around the steering wheel as if the weight of her memories might pull her under if she let go. Outside the window, the ocean stretched endlessly, a soft gray-blue beneath the early morning sky.
She hadn't spoken a word since leaving the city.
Her GPS had lost signal an hour ago, but she didn't care. The hand-drawn map from Margot had been tucked into her glove compartment, marked with circles and arrows, and embellished with enthusiastic commentary like, "Here's where you'll finally breathe again."
Lena wasn't sure she believed that yet.
When the town sign appeared—Welcome to Dawnridge: Where Every Sunrise Feels Like a Beginning—she slowed, the words catching in her throat. A beginning. She wasn't ready for one. She wasn't sure she ever would be.
Her destination was a small cottage nestled near the edge of a rocky cliff, surrounded by sea grass and wind-blown wildflowers. It was called Seabrook, though the paint on the sign had long since faded. The cottage looked like it had stood against a hundred storms and still held its ground, quiet and proud.
A woman stood on the porch, wrapped in a knitted shawl the color of lavender. Her silver hair was tied back loosely, and her eyes—gentle, perceptive—met Lena's as she stepped out of the car.
"You must be Lena," the woman said with a kind smile. "I'm Mrs. Clary."
Lena offered a small nod. "Hi. Yes. Sorry I'm a bit late."
"You're right on time," Mrs. Clary replied, as if she were talking about something deeper than the hour. "Come in, dear. You look like the wind could blow you away."
Inside, the cottage smelled of lemon, sea salt, and old books. The furniture was mismatched but cozy, the walls adorned with watercolor paintings of the coastline and small vases filled with dried lavender.
"You'll have the place to yourself," Mrs. Clary said. "I live just down the lane if you need anything. But I'll give you your space. People come here to breathe."
Lena glanced out the window, where the ocean met the sky in a pale haze. "Breathing sounds nice."
Mrs. Clary's smile softened. "Then let the sea teach you how."
Lena stood at the edge of the creaking wooden pier, her eyes fixed on the shifting horizon where sea met sky. The wind lifted strands of her honey-blonde hair and tugged at the hem of her linen blouse. The suitcase at her side had toppled once already from a particularly strong gust, and she didn't bother righting it. She wasn't in a hurry anymore. Not for anything.
The salty air brought with it a quiet she hadn't felt in months. Not since the funeral. Not since the last painting she couldn't bring herself to finish. Not since she had felt like herself.
Dawnridge was smaller than she remembered. Quieter. The quaint buildings along the bayfront still bore their sun-bleached signs, their awnings fluttering like faded flags. There was the bookshop with ivy creeping up its stone walls. The diner with its crooked window display of pies and chipped mugs. And just around the corner—though she hadn't looked yet—there would be the house.
Her grandmother's house.
The place that smelled of lavender and lemon balm. That creaked in the same places it had since Lena was six. That held the memory of summers spent barefoot on warm wood floors and nights listening to the ocean breathe outside her bedroom window.
A gull cried overhead. A reminder that time didn't stop, not even here.
She turned away from the water slowly, took a deep breath, and lifted the suitcase handle. The wheels protested against the uneven path as she made her way up the hill toward Lavender Street.
Halfway up, she passed a hardware shop, its windows propped open by old paint cans. A man stood just inside the door, sorting through lengths of rope and what looked like netting. His hands were rough, his movements methodical. He glanced up briefly when she passed, their eyes meeting just long enough for Lena to feel something stir—recognition, maybe, or just the sharp contrast between his solid presence and her own floating uncertainty.
She didn't smile. Neither did he.
The house was exactly as she remembered. Pale blue with white trim, though the paint was peeling in places and the front gate hung slightly off its hinge. Ivy had claimed one of the porch columns. The windchime made from seashells still hung beneath the awning, catching the breeze in a familiar, melancholy tune.
Lena's fingers hesitated at the gate latch. For a moment, she simply stood there, heart heavy with the weight of all she'd carried—not just the bags, but the silence, the loss, the longing to belong somewhere again.
She stepped through.
The key was still under the third pot. Her grandmother always said it would be, even if no one believed her. "If someone needs to come home," she used to say, "let them in."
The door groaned open. Dust danced in the air, visible in slanted beams of late afternoon light. The air smelled of old wood and dried herbs. Her grandmother's rocking chair sat by the window, a folded shawl still resting on its arm as though she'd be back any moment to pick it up.
Lena dropped her suitcase and sank onto the couch, burying her face in her hands. She didn't cry. Not yet. It was too soon for that. She hadn't let herself cry in months, and she wasn't sure if she could anymore.
A knock startled her.
She froze, eyes darting toward the door she hadn't closed properly. Another knock—this one firmer.
Standing, she wiped her hands on her jeans and made her way to the front entrance. When she opened the door, the sunlight spilled around the figure of the man from the hardware shop.
He stood with one hand in his pocket, the other holding a small paper bag. Closer now, she could see the sharp line of his jaw, the way the sun had painted his skin bronze, the eyes the color of the tide just before dusk.
"I saw you come up the hill," he said. His voice was deep, quiet. "Figured you might want these." He handed her the bag.
Inside were two bagels and a small jar of what looked like homemade blueberry jam.
Lena blinked. "Thank you, but I—"
"Local custom," he said before she could finish. "When someone returns to Dawnridge, you welcome them with something sweet." He glanced past her into the house. "Place looks the same."
"You knew my grandmother?"
He nodded. "Everyone did. She used to bring me lemonade when I was hammering things for her porch." His mouth twitched—almost a smile. "I'm Eli."
Lena hesitated, then stepped back slightly. "I'm Lena. Hart."
"I know." He tipped his head. "Welcome back."
She opened her mouth to say something else, but he was already turning away, walking back down the path with slow, deliberate steps. The wind lifted his shirt slightly at the hem, revealing the curve of muscle at his back. A man made of salt and storms, she thought. Steady, but always moving beneath the surface.
Lena closed the door behind her, clutching the bag of bread and jam to her chest. She didn't know what she was doing here, not really. But in that moment, with the taste of salt on her lips and the memory of Eli's gaze still in her mind, she thought maybe—just maybe—this place could mend what had been broken.
The next morning greeted Lena with golden light filtering through gauzy curtains, the kind of soft warmth that made the world feel gentle. For a few disoriented seconds, she forgot where she was. Then the scent of sea air and lavender reminded her.
Dawnridge.
The quiet house held its breath as she rose, the old floorboards creaking under her bare feet. The kitchen was as she remembered it—faded blue cabinets, mismatched knobs, a ceramic bowl of dried rosemary left on the windowsill. Her fingers lingered on the counter where her grandmother used to knead dough, her soft humming always filling the silence.
Lena found the coffee pot—miraculously still working—and let it brew as she wandered the house. Dust clung to every corner. Picture frames hung slightly askew, filled with memories of a simpler time. One photo, yellowed with age, caught her eye. It showed her younger self, no more than ten, missing a front tooth, grinning up at the camera with her arms wrapped around a black-and-white border collie. Behind her, her grandmother smiled, a hand resting on Lena's shoulder.
A wave of ache crept up her spine.
She sipped her coffee slowly and wandered onto the back porch. The view had not changed: the open yard sloped gently toward a thicket of sea grass, and beyond that, the cliffside path leading to the cove. A sliver of beach waited below, familiar and forgotten all at once.
A rustle in the yard caught her attention.
Lena squinted against the sun. A figure was crouched near the back fence, inspecting something in the overgrown garden beds. When he straightened, she recognized him instantly—Eli.
"Do you always show up uninvited?" she called out, though her voice lacked bite.
He looked up, shielding his eyes with one hand. "Didn't want to knock too early," he said. "Figured I'd see how the garden survived."
She set down her mug and stepped into the yard, arms crossed loosely over her chest. "You worked on this, too?"
Eli nodded, running a hand through his dark hair. "Couple years back, she asked me to help build raised beds. Said she wanted to grow 'food with roots.' I guess she meant more than vegetables."
Lena's heart caught.
"She believed in that," Lena said softly. "That things grew best when they had roots."
"She wasn't wrong," Eli replied.
They stood in the silence for a moment. A pair of bees hovered near a cluster of wild mint, and the wind tossed the scent of earth and salt between them.
"I could help you clean this up," he offered. "If you plan to stay."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "That sounds like a condition."
"No condition," he said, shrugging. "Just… some things deserve a second chance. Like this garden. Like this place."
Lena watched him for a moment, unsure what to say. He was unlike anyone she knew in the city. Not just because he didn't fill every silence or hide behind sarcasm, but because he said things that made her think about the quiet parts of herself she had locked away.
"I'm not sure if I'm staying," she admitted. "I came here to… breathe. To be still."
He nodded as if he understood something she hadn't said out loud. "That's as good a reason as any."
She turned her gaze to the beds, to the weeds creeping along the edges and the brittle stalks of forgotten flowers. "Maybe we start with this one," she said, pointing to the closest plot.
Eli gave a slow, satisfied nod. "I'll be back with tools."
---
Later that afternoon, the sun hung low, casting golden hues across the sky. Lena knelt in the dirt, sweat on her brow and soil under her nails. She had tied her hair up, rolled her sleeves, and let herself forget about everything but the feel of earth beneath her hands. It was the first time in months she felt tired in a good way—not from grief, but from effort.
Eli worked beside her in silence. Every now and then, he'd glance her way, but he didn't pry or push. Just passed her a spade or pointed out where to dig.
"You're quieter than I expected," she said finally, as they pulled up the last stubborn root.
He chuckled. "Most people talk enough for both of us. I figured you might need the opposite."
She sat back on her heels, eyeing him. "And what makes you think you know what I need?"
He met her gaze, serious now. "I don't. But I know what this place gave me when I needed it. Thought it might do the same for you."
Something in her chest cracked open. Not fully. But enough.
They packed up the tools in comfortable silence. As Eli hoisted the bag of clippings over his shoulder, he looked back at her.
"There's a town bonfire on Friday night," he said. "On the beach. Good way to meet people. Or just watch from a distance, if that's your thing."
Lena gave him a wry smile. "Let me guess—you'll be there?"
"Someone has to bring the wood," he replied, then gave her a small nod before disappearing through the gate.
She watched him go, the weight of the day settling into her muscles. Something about this man—about this town—unnerved her. Not in a bad way. Just in a way that made her feel like she was waking up from something.
That night, Lena lay in bed listening to the ocean's lullaby through the open window. Her fingers ached from digging. Her skin smelled like mint and sun.
And for the first time in a long while, she felt like maybe she was exactly where she needed to be.