Theo hadn't planned to stay in Brindle Bay.
He rarely planned anything anymore. Not since New York. Not since everything unraveled.
But there was something about this town—the way the air smelled like salt and stories, how the roads curved like they were meant to lead you somewhere safe. And then there was the bookstore. Or rather, the woman inside it.
Lena.
She was quiet in the way that made you listen. Not withdrawn, not cold—just... careful. Like she kept her heart behind glass, only letting in what wouldn't shatter her.
Theo understood that.
The cottage was small, but it suited him. Weathered shingles, a narrow porch, windows that looked out toward the sea. It smelled like dust and lemon polish, like no one had lived there in a long time—but it didn't feel lonely.
He dropped his bag by the doorway and wandered room to room. A sunlit kitchen. A reading nook tucked into the corner. An old piano with a cracked key near the back.
It felt... unfinished. Like a story mid-sentence.
He set up his camera by the window. The light here was warm. Golden. It bathed the room in a kind of quiet he hadn't known he needed.
That evening, he returned to the bookstore with two mugs of hot cocoa—one plain, one with cinnamon, though he wasn't sure which she liked.
She raised an eyebrow when he walked in.
"You're persistent," she said.
"I'm thoughtful," he replied, holding out the drinks.
She took one, sniffed, then nodded in approval. "You guessed right."
He grinned. "Lucky me."
They sat in the armchairs near the window, feet propped on an ottoman. Outside, the sky blushed with the last light of day.
"So," she said, after a few quiet sips, "what kind of photographer are you?"
"The kind that doesn't like posing people," he said. "I chase moments. The in-betweens."
"In-betweens?"
He nodded. "The seconds between laughter. The way someone exhales when they don't know anyone's watching. The tilt of a head, a look out a window—things like that."
She looked at him for a beat too long. "You sound like a poet."
He smiled. "I think photographers are just poets with better lighting."
That made her laugh. Soft. Surprised.
It was the first time he'd heard her do that.
And God, he wanted to hear it again.
After she closed the shop, they stood outside under a sky full of stars. The sea was a hush in the distance. The willow tree behind her swayed gently, catching the moonlight like a secret.
He followed her gaze toward it. "That tree means something to you."
She didn't answer right away. "My late husband planted it with me," she said quietly. "He passed five years ago."
Theo's chest tightened. "I'm sorry."
She nodded once, eyes still on the leaves. "It's okay. You can't carry grief forever. Eventually, it sets you down. You just have to figure out who you are after it does."
He didn't know what to say to that. So he just stood beside her. Silent. Present.
Sometimes, that was enough.
"Why Brindle Bay?" she asked finally.
"I didn't mean to end up here," he said truthfully. "But something about it felt… like a pause I needed to take."
She tilted her head. "A pause from what?"
Theo hesitated. "From the noise. From people expecting me to be someone I'm not sure I am anymore."
She looked at him then—really looked. And he had the feeling she understood more than she let on.
After a moment, she nodded toward the cottage. "That place has been empty a long time. Maybe it was waiting for you."
He smiled. "I like that idea."
They stood in the quiet for a while longer.
Not as strangers.
Not quite as friends.
Just two people with stories etched deep inside them, standing under the same stars, listening to the same sea, breathing the same night air.
And for the first time in a long time, Theo felt like maybe—just maybe—he was exactly where he was supposed to be.