A small coastal town in Oregon, known for its breathtaking sunsets and charming, tight-knit community.
The wind carried the scent of salt and memory as Clara Hart drove into the small coastal town of Haven Bay. The ocean stretched endlessly to her left, crashing against the rocky cliffs like it was trying to speak. In her rearview mirror, the towering skyline of New York City was already a distant ghost, swallowed by the miles of winding roads and fading autumn leaves.
She hadn’t been back in ten years.
The town hadn’t changed much. Same crooked street signs. Same weatherworn buildings, their facades softened by sea air and time. The same old bakery with the sun-bleached awning. Her heart twisted at the sight of it all—familiar, yet foreign.
Clara slowed her car as she reached the heart of town. She passed the art supply shop Mrs. Dorsey had owned since Clara was a kid. A hand-painted sign hung in the window: Welcome Home, Clara. Her chest tightened. Somehow, news traveled faster here than anywhere else.
She turned onto Windmere Lane, the road lined with cedar trees that led up to her grandmother’s house. Or rather, what had been her grandmother’s house. The two-story cottage sat quietly beneath the sky, wrapped in ivy, its shutters flaking white paint. It looked just as it had in her dreams.
Clara pulled into the gravel driveway and cut the engine. For a long moment, she sat still, hands on the steering wheel, unwilling to open the door. The house was a time capsule. A sanctuary. A tomb.
She stepped out, gravel crunching beneath her boots, and approached the front porch. Her fingers brushed the wood railing—faded, but solid. She remembered sitting here as a little girl, painting sunsets while her grandmother read poetry aloud.
The key was still under the third flowerpot, just like always.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender and dust. The living room was filled with sunlight, casting warm pools on the hardwood floor. Her grandmother’s rocking chair sat in the corner, unmoved. Clara dropped her bag by the door and walked slowly through the space, her fingers trailing along the furniture, the books, the picture frames that hadn’t been touched in months.
When she reached the kitchen, a note pinned to the fridge caught her eye.
"Clara – Welcome home. If you need anything, you know where to find me. – Eli"
Clara stared at the note. Eli Morgan.
The name rippled through her like a forgotten melody. He had been her childhood friend—the boy next door with kind eyes and a crooked smile. They’d spent summers chasing fireflies and winters building snow forts. Then high school happened, and life happened, and she had left without saying goodbye.
She hadn’t heard his name in years.
Clara set the note down and walked to the window above the sink. From there, she could just make out the old Morgan house across the field—tucked behind a row of pine trees, its roof sagging a little more than she remembered. Smoke curled gently from the chimney.
A decade had passed, but some things, it seemed, refused to change.
She unpacked slowly that afternoon, one room at a time. Each item she uncovered—an old painting, a worn book, a chipped mug—was a relic of a life she’d once known. She placed everything with care, as though reassembling pieces of her grandmother’s memory would somehow make the loss hurt less.
By late afternoon, the sun had dipped low in the sky, casting golden light over the porch. Clara stood with a mug of tea in her hands, wrapped in a thick cardigan, watching as the wind rippled through the grass. A small voice drifted through the air, faint at first, then clearer.
A little girl was laughing.
Clara peered around the porch post. A child—maybe six or seven—darted through the field with a stick in one hand and a red scarf trailing behind her like a comet. Behind her, a tall figure followed at a slower pace.
Eli.
Clara’s breath caught.
He was broader than she remembered, his frame solid with years of labor. His hair was a little darker now, his jawline more defined with a day’s worth of stubble. He wore a flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, his hands tucked in his pockets as he walked, watching the girl with a quiet smile.
He looked happy. Grounded.
“Go faster, Daddy!” the girl called.
“I’m trying, peanut. You’re too fast for me.”
Clara smiled in spite of herself. The girl circled around and noticed her standing on the porch. She stopped short, wide-eyed.
“Daddy,” the girl whispered, tugging on his hand. “Who’s that?”
Eli turned, following her gaze—and froze.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The wind carried the scent of the ocean between them, and time, like the tide, pulled everything else away.
Clara raised a tentative hand in greeting.
Eli hesitated, then smiled—slow, familiar, warm.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said as he approached the porch, his daughter in tow. “Clara Hart.”
She laughed softly. “Hey, Eli.”
“You came back.”
“I did.”
They stood there, the weight of old history hanging quietly between them.
“This is my daughter, Sophie,” Eli said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Clara crouched down with a smile. “Hi, Sophie. I’m Clara.”
The girl tilted her head. “You’re the one who paints the skies.”
Clara blinked. “Excuse me?”
“My grandma says you used to paint sunsets that looked like magic.”
Clara’s throat tightened. She glanced at Eli, who just gave her a small nod. “Well,” Clara said, smiling again, “I guess I’ll have to paint you one sometime.”
Sophie beamed.
“Come on,” Eli said gently, taking his daughter’s hand. “Let’s let Miss Clara get settled.”
But as he turned, he paused and looked back. “You should stop by sometime. The shop’s still open. I could use some help fixing the old studio.”
Clara tilted her head. “The one by the cliffs?”
“Yeah. Your grandma left it to you, you know. Thought you might want to reopen it someday.”
She hadn’t even read the will in full yet. The thought of reopening the studio felt overwhelming—and yet, a flicker of something stirred inside her. A curiosity. A longing.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
Eli smiled again, just slightly. “Good.”
And with that, he walked away, hand in hand with his daughter, the setting sun casting long shadows behind them.
Clara stood on the porch until the wind grew cold, wondering how a place could feel like both a beginning and an end.
Clara stood in the kitchen later that night, the lights dimmed low, her hands wrapped around a fresh mug of tea. The scent of chamomile wafted upward, calming her nerves as she stared out the window into the darkened field beyond. The stars had emerged, bright and scattered, like a sky full of whispered wishes.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Eli.
He had barely changed, and yet—he was someone entirely new. There was a quiet depth to him now, shaped not just by time but by experience. And Sophie—sweet, wide-eyed Sophie—had Eli’s kindness written all over her.
Clara sat at the old wooden table and pulled a worn journal from her bag. She hadn’t written in weeks. Not since the funeral. The grief had been too thick, words too thin to matter. But now, something in her was stirring, like a frozen stream cracking under the first hint of spring.
She opened the cover and began to write.
The sea hasn’t changed.
It still breathes in and out like it knows the secrets we’ve forgotten.
And somehow, I think it remembers me…
More than I remember myself.
She paused. Her hand trembled slightly as she closed the book and laid it beside her. A soft knock at the door startled her.
Clara stood, unsure if she’d imagined it.
Another knock.
She crossed the room and opened the door to find a small, white box on the porch. No one in sight. The wind rustled through the ivy.
Inside the box was a slice of warm apple pie wrapped in parchment and tied with twine.
No note. But she didn’t need one.
She smiled. Eli always remembered the details. When they were kids, her favorite dessert had been the bakery’s cinnamon apple pie. He’d once traded his Halloween candy for a whole slice just to make her smile after she’d scraped her knee.
She brought the box inside and sat back down at the table, taking a bite. Sweet, with just a hint of clove. The taste pulled her back to childhood, to simpler days when the biggest heartbreak was losing a paintbrush or watching summer end.
She didn’t know why he had brought it. Or maybe she did.
It felt like a peace offering.
A bridge.
Later, as she lay in her old bedroom beneath a quilt her grandmother had sewn, she stared at the ceiling and let the memories wash over her. The laughter, the storms, the promises whispered between paintings and porch steps.
She had left to find herself. But what if she’d left a piece of herself behind?
Maybe, she thought, this isn’t just where it ends.
Maybe… it’s where it begins again.