Mira Callahan had known Lena since they were both seven—before husbands and heartaches, before the bookstore and grief. While Lena was the steady tide, Mira was a wildfire in heels. She worked as a local event planner, wore bold lipstick like armor, and made it her mission to keep Lena connected to the world outside her books.
"I swear, if it weren't for me, you'd have married a fictional character by now," Mira had once joked, plopping down on the bookstore's worn-out sofa.
Lena had only smiled. "They're quieter than real men."
Mira rolled her eyes but never pushed too hard. She understood Lena's silences. Knew where they came from.
They had shared everything over the years—midnight ice cream, breakups, wedding dresses. And after James died, Mira was the one who brought coffee every morning without asking, the one who let Lena cry without speaking, the one who reminded her, quietly and often, that she was still here. Still loved.
Now, with Theo drifting into Lena's orbit, Mira watched with curious eyes and barely-concealed interest.
"You're either going to fall in love or push him off the dock," she teased one afternoon.
"I haven't decided yet," Lena replied.
But her smile gave her away.
Lena wasn't used to noise in the morning.
The bookstore had always woken slowly, yawning into its rhythm with the soft turning of pages and the whisper of early light. But today, there were voices—low, curious, and unmistakably familiar.
She paused at the foot of the stairs leading down to the shop, mug of coffee in hand.
Mira.
And Theo.
Lena nearly turned back around.
Instead, she squared her shoulders and descended.
Mira stood near the romance section, wearing a burnt orange blazer like it was war paint. Her dark curls were piled atop her head in a controlled mess, and she was grinning like a cat with a secret.
"You must be the famous Lena," Theo was saying, teasing amusement in his voice.
Mira glanced over and smirked. "Ah, the sleeping beauty awakes."
Lena rolled her eyes. "I live here, remember?"
Mira ignored her and extended a hand toward Theo. "Mira Callahan. Best friend, local gossip, and unofficial vetter of all potential suitors."
Lena nearly choked on her coffee.
Theo, unfazed, shook her hand. "Theo Maddox. Wandering photographer and consumer of small-town pastries."
"Charming and self-deprecating," Mira said. "You might survive after all."
Lena leaned against the counter and sipped her coffee slowly, hoping to regain control of the moment. But Mira was already in full interrogation mode.
"So what brings you to our sleepy corner of the world, Theo?"
He smiled, easy and honest. "A need for quiet. And the accidental discovery of a bookstore with a fireplace."
Mira's eyes gleamed. "You've clearly met Lena's heart already."
Lena gave her a look. Mira winked.
As the morning settled, customers trickled in, and Theo eventually excused himself, camera slung over one shoulder, promising to be back before closing. Mira waited until he was out of earshot before turning to Lena, arms crossed and eyes dancing.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Don't 'what' me. That man is five parts dream and two parts mystery. And you let him move into the cottage."
Lena looked down, tracing the rim of her mug. "He needed a place. It was empty."
Mira softened. "And you needed something too, didn't you?"
Lena didn't answer.
Because she wasn't sure yet.
---
That afternoon, Lena wandered into the cottage with a small cardboard box in hand. It held a few necessities—spare towels, an extra blanket, and a lemon pie from the corner café.
She found Theo sitting on the back steps, camera in his lap, watching the wind ripple across the sea.
"You didn't knock," he said without turning.
"The door was open."
"Always is."
She joined him without invitation, setting the box beside him.
"I brought pie," she said.
"That's becoming a theme."
"It's safer than talking."
He smiled and handed her a fork.
They ate in silence, the breeze carrying the scent of salt and something green and fresh. Lena watched the waves shift and roll, steady as breath.
After a while, she spoke. Quiet, careful.
"My husband loved lemon pie. He used to buy it on rainy days."
Theo glanced at her, but said nothing.
She appreciated that.
"I used to think grief would drown me," she went on. "But it doesn't. It lingers. It changes shape. Some days it's a shadow. Other days... a song I forgot I knew."
Theo set his fork down. "That sounds like someone who's still learning how to carry it."
"I am."
They sat there for a while, not needing to fill the space between words.
Eventually, he asked, "Do you ever talk to him?"
Lena nodded. "When it rains. Or when the wind moves a certain way."
He looked out over the sea again, as if understanding something she hadn't said.
"I lost someone too," he said softly. "Not to death, but to time. To change. And I still talk to her. Mostly in photographs."
Lena studied him. "What happened?"
"She wanted a life that moved faster than mine," he said. "I wanted stillness. She wanted skyscrapers and headlines."
"And you wanted the light."
"I still do," he said. "But I'm learning that sometimes, light doesn't come from the sun."
She smiled faintly. "Poet with a camera."
He chuckled. "Guilty."
When the pie was gone and the sky turned gold, Lena rose to leave. She turned at the door.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For not asking me to be anything more than I am."
Theo nodded once. "I like you as you are."
She held his gaze for a breath longer, then slipped through the door and back into the wind.
And as she walked home, something inside her—something long asleep—shifted ever so slightly toward waking.