The road curved like a sea snake along the cliffs, hemmed in by wind-swept pines and the restless sea beyond.
Elizabeth Winston hadn't seen the town in seven years, but nothing had really changed. The same tattered signs hung above the bakery and the florist's door. The same crooked mailbox leaned outside the post office; rusty and dusty even.
Even the air smelled the same - a soft mix of salt, moss, and something sweet she couldn't name.
She parked where her grandmother used to. Gravel crunched beneath the tires, brittle and familiar.
For a long time, she didn't get out. The engine puffed as it cooled, and a strand of her hair clung to the corner of her lip glazed by lip gloss because of the breeze coming off the water. She didn't brush it away. It didn't really matter.
The house stood ahead of her - the old cottage on the rise. Whitewashed, peeling, small-paned windows looked like watching eyes. The front gate sagged on its hinges. There was no welcome sign, no porch light. Just a front door painted a faded, stubborn shade of brown.
Elizabeth stepped out of the car. Gravels crunching beneath boots. She opened the trunk and pulled out only what she needed: a single suitcase and a box labelled in black ink - Not Yet.
The box felt heavier than it should have, as if memory had weight.
Her beige dress clung and divided between her legs, like a drenched dog seeking a respite of warmth.
The key was cold in her palm. The door stuck a little, then gave with a creaky sound.
The air inside was still and faintly gave a fragrance intertwined with lavender and a bit of strawberries, like the dried sachets her grandmother used to hide in every drawer. Dust hung in the light like sleeping fireflies.
Elizabeth didn't say anything as she stepped in. She just closed the door gently behind her.
This was where she was going to start over. Or at least, where she would wait until she figured out how.
She didn't turn on the lights. She let the room wallow in its soft glow and stillness.
The cottage had always been the brightest in the hush before dusk, where the walls glowed with golden hues and the shadows stretched long and soft.
She walked room to room, her fingertips grazing surfaces: the narrow hall table with the chipped leg, the low shelf of forgotten books, the spot in the kitchen where the old radio used to hum softly through Sunday mornings.
Everything was smaller than she remembered. Or maybe she was just larger from her grief.
In the living room, the fireplace was stacked with logs someone else had chopped neatly, probably the neighbour, Mrs Kettler, who sent her a condolence card last year written in unfamiliar cursive, words that felt too careful.
Elizabeth didn't immediately lit the lanterns and chimney. She sat cross-legged on the rug instead, pulling the box labelled Not Yet in front of her.
She hesitated. Then, opened it.
Inside:
A faded photo of her and Jeremy on their book tour - he was smiling too wide, holding up a stuffed bear they used for school readings, received from a little fan. She was laughing. Hair in her face.
One of his sketchbooks - the kind he used to fill with rough sketches, thumbnails and avalanche of bird doodles in different seasons.
A sealed envelope. Her name on the front. His handwriting. She closed the box before she could think. Before the fountain would let loose and flood her in misery again, acute nostalgia even.
Later, she made ginger tea she didn't drink and curled up like a ball on the window bench.
Outside, the ocean swayed and whispered slow and rhythmic sighs against the shore.
She tried to read, but the words blurred. Not from tears. From absence. Longings. Loneliness.
The kind of feelings that doesn't scream, just sits beside you and waits.
She lit the lanterns and chimney in a trance-like state. A habit deeply etched her body sees as routine.
The cottage's door creaked as it let in cooled air. Old beams rattling. Wind whistling through the narrow chimney making the fires to flicker and dance.
Elizabeth laid on the small spring bed near the front window, wrapped in a quilt that smelled faintly of thyme and cedar.
She hadn't meant to sleep, only to rest her heavy lids. But sleep came anyway, soft and heavy as foggy morning during the winters.
In her peaceful slumber, she dreamt.
In her dream, Jeremy was drawing.
They were in the cottage; not as it was now, but as it had been that last summer. Windows wide open, a breeze tugging at the curtains. Jeremy sat cross-legged on the floor, ink-stained fingers moving quickly over the pages of his sketchbooks. His face lifted as he caught a glimpse of her stoic face glancing through the pages of an old book.
"Liz," he said - the nickname only he used, soft and fond "You're too serious again. Our best selling author needs a little mischief."
Elizabeth laughed. She was curled on the sofa with her knees tucked to her chest, scribbling lines in her notebook. "I am busy saving the night. No time for mischief."
"You need it," he said, holding the sketch up so she could see. The Dreamer girl stared straight ahead, wide-eyed, a little haunted. Jeremy had drawn her perched on a crescent moon, but her shoulders were too stiff. Too much like Elizabeth.
"Maybe I do forget I'm human sometimes," Elizabeth murmured.
Jeremy set the brush down and came to sit beside her, still smelling of ink and tea. He gently brushed her chin with the back of his fingers. "Then I'll remind you."
He kissed her temple. Not rushed. Not fiery. Just... sure. The kind of kiss that says: I see you. Even when you forget yourself.
She woke with a sharp inhale, the kind that feels like surfacing from an underwater current. The blanket had slipped to the floor. Her fingers were curled into her palm. Sweaty. Greasy. Scalding.
The house was dark now, except for the soft gold of a lamp she didn't remember turning on. The wind had doused the chimney.
She rose slowly and glided across the room. Opened the box again. Pulled out the sketchbook.
And on the very last page, one she'd never seen before, was a sketch of the Dreamer girl.
Older. Still watchful. But smiling now with perfect dentition.
Not wide. Just enough to evoke her emotions.
She sighed, for she knew she might never smile again.
Later, she made tea she didn't drink and curled up on the window bench. Outside, the ocean breathed in slow, rhythmic sighs against the shore.
She tried to read, but the words blurred. Not from tears. From absence.
The kind of absence that doesn't scream - just sits beside you and waits.