Chapter 1 — Arrival in Santorini

Sophie

The ferry swayed gently as it approached the dock, the Aegean Sea shimmering in the late afternoon sun. Sophie Larkin stood at the rail, her fingers curled tightly around the chipped paint of the metal bar. The salty breeze tugged strands of hair from her loose braid, carrying with it the faintest scent of wild thyme and sun-warmed stone. She pushed the stray curls back absently, her hazel eyes fixed on the horizon. Santorini rose before her, a crescent of whitewashed homes clinging to volcanic cliffs. Their blue domes caught the light like scattered pieces of sky fallen to earth, and beyond them, jagged pathways twisted upward into the cliffs, promising both wonder and mystery.

It was stunning, breathtaking even, but Sophie’s chest tightened, a mix of awe and unease rippling through her like the ferry’s gentle rocking. Her sketchpad was tucked under her arm, its edges worn smooth from countless attempts to fill its pages. Earlier on the ferry ride, she had opened it, eyes darting between the endless blue of the sea and the sharp, dark outline of the cliffs. Her pencil, poised in her hand, had hovered uselessly over the blank page. She had tried to capture the shimmering waves, the play of light on water, but the lines refused to take shape. Her fingers had tightened in frustration before she closed the pad once more, the weight of failure settling over her like a too-warm coat she couldn’t shrug off.

She glanced down at her hands now, smudged faintly with graphite from earlier attempts. The sight made her stomach twist—a sharp reminder of the creative block that had followed her from New York, a relentless shadow she couldn’t seem to shake. She thought of her old studio, of the canvases stacked in the corner, abandoned halfway to nowhere. And she thought of Evan. His voice surfaced unbidden, sharp and dismissive as it had been the last time they’d fought: “Maybe this just isn’t who you are anymore.”

Her throat tightened. She clutched the sketchpad closer to her chest. Leaving New York had been a leap, a desperate attempt to prove him wrong—to prove to herself that there was still something left to create. But here, surrounded by beauty so overwhelming it almost hurt, her fear whispered that maybe he had been right. What if this place, too, could coax nothing from her?

“First time?” a voice asked beside her, pulling her from the spiral of her thoughts. Sophie turned to see a woman, likely in her early forties, with sun-bronzed skin and dark curls that danced in the breeze. The ease with which the woman leaned against the rail, as though the world itself might bend to her rhythm, hinted that she was a local.

“Yes,” Sophie said, her voice soft. She forced herself to smile. “It’s beautiful.”

The woman’s mouth curved knowingly. “It is,” she said. “Wait until you see the cliffs at sunset. They turn gold, like they’re on fire.” She tilted her head, studying Sophie for a moment. “Are you staying long?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Sophie’s fingers tightened briefly on her sketchpad. “I hope to.”

The woman nodded, her gaze traveling to the pad under Sophie’s arm. “An artist?”

Sophie hesitated, the word catching on her tongue. “I… try to be.”

The woman didn’t press, only offered another smile, warm and somehow encouraging. “Well, Santorini has a way of stirring things up. Even things you think you’ve forgotten.” She pushed off the rail as the ferry’s horn blared, signaling their arrival. “Good luck, korítsi.”

Sophie watched her disappear into the growing crowd, her words lingering. Stirring things up. Sophie wasn’t sure if that was what she wanted or what she feared most.

The ferry docked with a gentle bump, and Sophie adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder as she followed the slow flow of passengers off the ramp. The scene before her unfolded in a vivid, chaotic tapestry. The crowd pressed forward, a mix of tourists chattering in languages Sophie couldn’t quite place and locals moving with practiced efficiency. Vendors called out from stalls along the dock, their wares bright and enticing: golden bottles of olive oil, delicate silver jewelry, jars of wildflower honey that glinted amber in the sun. The air was alive with the sounds of laughter, the distant call of seagulls, and the rhythm of waves lapping steadily at the wooden posts of the dock.

Sophie hesitated at the edge of the throng, the sheer vibrancy of it all washing over her like a wave she wasn’t prepared for. She clutched the strap of her bag a little tighter, taking a deep breath. The salty air mingled with the faint, earthy scent of herbs wafting from the nearby hills, grounding her just enough to take her first step forward.

Her instructions from the rental owner were clear: take the winding path that led up from the dock, past the small chapel with the peeling blue door. From there, the steps would twist and climb, eventually guiding her to the narrow streets of her village. Her studio waited somewhere near the edge of the caldera, its description promising a view of the sea that would “steal her breath.”

She hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder and began weaving her way through the crowd. It wasn’t long before the noise of the dock began to fade, replaced by the soft crunch of her sandals on the cobblestones. The path narrowed, lined with vibrant bursts of bougainvillea spilling over whitewashed walls. She brushed her fingers briefly against the petals of a trailing branch—soft, papery, and impossibly bright against her pale skin. The touch, fleeting as it was, pulled at something deep inside her. She paused, glancing back at the docks below, now partially obscured by the rise of the land. The sea stretched endlessly beyond, a mosaic of blues shifting with the light.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the breeze carry her forward. The words of the woman on the ferry returned, stirring like the wind. Stirring things up. Maybe that was what she needed. Maybe that was why she was here.

When Sophie opened her eyes again, she glanced at her sketchpad. Its blank pages no longer felt quite so heavy, though they still rested cool against her palm. With slow, deliberate steps, she continued up the path, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the cliffs met the sky. Somewhere ahead, her studio awaited, and with it, she hoped, the spark she’d come so far to find.