Chapter 2 — A Quiet Sanctuary

Emma

The soft crash of waves against the shore was a constant melody outside the windows of the Harrington cottage. Emma stood by the sink, her hands submerged in soapy water, absently scrubbing a plate. Through the glass pane in front of her, she could see Oliver playing in the small, untamed garden that hugged the back of the house. The garden, though overgrown with tall grass and wildflowers, held a rugged charm. It was a place where Oliver’s boundless imagination thrived, even if Emma couldn’t find the energy to tend to it.

Oliver crouched in the dirt, his brow furrowed with focus as he carefully dug a small trench around a cluster of seashells and polished stones. The shells glinted faintly in the late afternoon sun, remnants of their last beach walk. He muttered to himself under his breath, weaving a story as he worked; Emma couldn’t quite make out the words, but his voice carried the enthusiasm of a grand storyteller.

Her chest tightened—not just from sadness, but a sharper ache, a longing she couldn’t quite name. Lately, it had become harder to deny the change in Oliver. His world seemed brighter, his stories livelier, filled with bold adventures and magical lands. She knew the storytelling club was already having an effect.

“Mom!” Oliver’s voice rang out, snapping her from her thoughts. He waved excitedly from the garden, his green eyes shining with a familiar spark of curiosity and joy.

“Come see what I made!” he called.

Emma dried her hands on a dish towel and stepped out the back door. The familiar scent of saltwater and damp earth greeted her, carried by the cool breeze. The grass felt soft underfoot as she approached him, taking in the little trench he had dug around the shells and rocks.

“What’s this, then?” she asked, crouching beside him.

“It’s a moat,” Oliver explained with pride, pointing at the shallow groove. “For the castle. See?”

Emma tilted her head, studying the arrangement. “Ah, of course. A very fine castle indeed.”

Oliver grinned, his small chest puffed with satisfaction. His expression softened as he picked up a shell, carefully turning it over in his hands. “You think Dad would’ve liked it?”

The question hit her like a pebble dropped into still water, sending ripples outward. She froze for a moment, her fingers brushing against the cool grass, before forcing herself to breathe. Her smile faltered, just for a heartbeat, before she steadied it.

“I think he’d love it,” she said softly, brushing a strand of messy brown hair from Oliver’s forehead. “He always liked castles, didn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Oliver’s voice grew quieter. His thumb traced the ridges of the shell in his hand. “Maybe we could take a picture of it. So we don’t forget.”

Emma swallowed hard, her heart clenching at the quiet resolve in his voice. He was always trying to hold onto things, as though preserving small moments might keep the past closer. She nodded, running her fingers across the tousle of his hair. “We can do that. I’ll grab my phone in a bit.”

Oliver brightened, his face lighting up again. “Oh! Mr. Cole said we can bring things to the storytelling club next time. Stuff that inspires us.”

“Oh, did he?” Emma asked, brushing dirt from her jeans as she stood.

“Yeah! I was thinking... maybe I could bring this,” he said, gesturing to the castle moat. “Or maybe my notebook.”

“You mean the one with the spaceship stickers?” she asked, smiling.

Oliver nodded enthusiastically. “He said my stories are really good, Mom. Like, really good! He even told me I should write them down so I don’t forget any ideas.”

Emma felt her chest soften at his excitement. “He’s right, you know. You’ve always been a creative little guy.”

His grin widened, and he dashed off to rearrange the rocks around the moat. But Emma stayed where she was, her thoughts lingering. Creativity. Nathan had said the word so casually the day before, but it had struck her, resonating in a place she wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

She thought of the way Nathan had looked at her during their conversation, his expression both curious and kind, as if he’d glimpsed something she had long buried. Her instinct then had been to deflect, brushing off his comment about her art as though it meant nothing. But his words lingered, trailing her like the tide, persistent and unignorable.

Back in the kitchen, Emma leaned against the counter, sipping her tea as she watched Oliver through the window. He was narrating a story as he worked, his gestures animated and confident. There was a lightness about him she hadn’t seen in so long. It was like watching the sun break through clouds that had lingered far too long.

Her fingers tightened around the mug’s smooth ceramic. Was she truly doing enough for him? Enough to nurture that spark? She had tried so hard to shield him from the weight of her grief, to keep their lives steady after Mark’s death. But how much had she really protected him... and how much had she held them both back?

The sound of tiny feet on the wooden floor pulled her from her thoughts. Oliver had bounded back inside, his cheeks flushed from the crisp breeze outside.

“Can we go to the beach, Mom? Just for a little bit?” His green eyes were wide and hopeful.

Emma hesitated, her chest tightening. The beach had always been a place of contradictions for her. It was where she and Mark had spent countless afternoons, dreaming about their future. It was also where the rhythm of the waves brought her closer to him, where the memories felt both comforting and suffocating.

Her instinct was to say no. To keep the memories at bay. But then she looked down at Oliver, saw the light in his expression, and felt her resistance waver.

“Please?” Oliver pressed, tugging on her sleeve.

Emma smiled faintly, the decision settling in her chest like a small but firm weight. “Alright. Just for a little bit.”

The two of them walked down the narrow path leading from the cottage to the shoreline, the sound of the waves growing louder with every step. The sand was cool beneath their feet, the air carrying a faint chill that hinted at autumn’s approach.

Oliver darted ahead, chasing a seagull that flapped lazily out of reach. Emma stayed back, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the water met the sky. She inhaled deeply, letting the briny air fill her lungs.

“Mom!” Oliver called, beckoning her toward the tidepools near the rocks.

She followed him, crouching down as he pointed out tiny crabs scuttling beneath the surface. “Look at that one!” he exclaimed, his finger tracing the movement of a particularly feisty crab.

Emma nodded, smiling at his enthusiasm. But as her eyes drifted to the water, she caught her reflection rippling alongside Oliver’s. Her face looked tired, drawn. The freckles that dotted her nose seemed fainter, as though time had softened them along with everything else.

“Mom?” Oliver’s voice was softer now. “Are you okay?”

She blinked, startled by the question. “Of course, sweetheart. Why do you ask?”

“You looked sad,” he said simply, his green eyes searching her face with a quiet intensity that always caught her off guard. “Like when you think about Dad.”

Emma’s breath hitched. She reached out, brushing her fingers gently against his cheek. “I’m okay, Ollie,” she said softly. “Sometimes I just... miss him. That’s all.”

Oliver nodded, his gaze dropping to the tidepool. “Me too,” he murmured.

For a moment, the only sound was the waves, steady and unrelenting as they lapped at the shore.

“Mr. Cole said it’s okay to miss people,” Oliver said finally, his voice thoughtful. “He said it’s like... they’re a part of your story, even if they’re not here anymore.”

Emma’s throat tightened as she took his hand in hers, squeezing gently. “He’s a smart man, your Mr. Cole.”

Oliver smiled faintly before turning back to the tidepool, his focus shifting to the tiny creatures beneath the water’s surface.

Emma stayed where she was, her gaze lingering on the horizon. The tide crept closer, slowly enveloping the rocks, its rhythm steady and unstoppable.

Maybe, she thought, it was time to stop standing still.