Episode 9: Where It All Started
The lake was still the same.
Quiet. Vast. Endless. The kind of place where time slowed, and the world softened.
I parked the car and stepped out slowly, letting the silence wrap around me like an old coat. The gravel crunched beneath my shoes as I followed the trail we used to walk every summer.
Memories clung to the trees.
Clara, chasing butterflies, laughing without reserve.
Me, watching her from a distance, already carrying the weight of a family that never made space for joy.
Back then, I believed silence was strength.
Now, I know silence can also be a prison.
At the clearing, I saw her.
Clara.
Sitting on the edge of the dock, feet dangling just above the water, her sketchbook in her lap.
She didn't turn around.
She didn't have to.
"I didn't think you'd come," she said, voice steady.
"I didn't think I could," I replied.
She looked over her shoulder then. Her eyes were softer than I remembered. Tired, maybe. But alive.
I stepped closer, careful not to startle her. Careful not to scare myself.
"I found your letter," I said. "At the inn."
She nodded. "I hoped you would."
We stood in silence. But it wasn't the same silence that lived between us for years. This one was full of things we didn't know how to say—yet.
I sat beside her on the dock.
The wind stirred the trees. A single leaf floated down and landed on the water.
"I used to come here when I was little and imagine running away," Clara said. "I thought if I could just make it to the horizon, everything would be better."
"And was it?"
"No," she smiled faintly. "But I think… I needed to go to realize what I was actually running from."
She turned to me, finally meeting my gaze.
"I wasn't running from you, Elena."
Tears welled up in my eyes before I could stop them.
"I know," I whispered. "I think… I was running too. I just never left."
She closed her sketchbook and set it aside.
"I was angry for a long time," she said. "At them. At you. At me. But mostly, I was just hurt. I didn't understand why we stopped talking. Why you stopped seeing me."
"I thought I was protecting you," I said, my voice cracking. "Protecting both of us. If I followed the rules, if I stayed in control, maybe everything wouldn't fall apart."
"But it did," she said quietly.
"I know," I said. "And I'm sorry."
We both looked out at the lake.
It shimmered under the early afternoon sun.
"I missed you," she said.
"I missed you more than I let myself admit."
She leaned her head on my shoulder, just for a moment. The way she used to when she was little and afraid of the dark.
"I don't know if I can go back home," she said.
"That's okay," I replied. "Maybe we don't have to go back. Maybe we start something new. Together. On our own terms."
She smiled.
"Do you remember that summer we tried to build a raft?" she asked.
"And it sank within five minutes," I laughed.
"We blamed the sticks. But I think we both knew we didn't tie them tight enough."
"Kind of like us," I said. "We were close, but never… quite held together."
She looked at me, eyes full of hope and hurt.
"Do you think we can fix it?"
"I think we already started."
We stayed by the lake until sunset. Talking. Laughing. Letting old wounds breathe in the open air.
There was no dramatic reunion. No promises we couldn't keep.
Only truth.
And for the first time, that was enough.
As we stood to leave, she slipped her sketchbook into my hands.
"Open to the last page," she said.
I did.
There we were—two women, older, changed, standing side by side. Holding hands. Facing the horizon together.
"I drew that before I knew if you'd come," she said. "But I hoped."
I closed the sketchbook, holding it to my chest.
"So did I."