Chapter 3 — Crossing Paths

Clara

The salty tang of the ocean air hit Clara’s nostrils as she made her way down the gravel path toward the harbor, her boots crunching against the ground in a steady rhythm. The morning fog had lifted, revealing a crisp autumn day, the sky above painted in muted shades of gray and blue. Clara pulled her coat tighter against the brisk breeze, her mind still replaying Eleanor’s letter from the attic. The words had settled in her chest like an anchor, heavy but grounding, offering an unexpected clarity that left her both comforted and unsettled.

The house had felt suffocating that morning. Its silence, broken only by the occasional creak of its aged beams, seemed to press against her, weighted with the ghosts of memory and the quiet demands of restoration. Hours spent sifting through Eleanor’s journals had only deepened the sense of disarray within her. She needed to move, to breathe, to escape the confines of the house. She hadn’t planned to go to the harbor, but her feet had carried her there anyway, as though drawn by a gravitational pull she couldn’t resist. The sea had always been a balm for her restlessness, its tides steadying what felt untethered.

As the harbor came into view, Clara slowed her pace, her breath catching at the familiar tableau before her. The scene was vibrant and unchanged, a living memory of her youth unfolding in real time. Fishermen hauled in their morning catches, their voices carrying over the cries of gulls squabbling for scraps. Lobstermen worked side by side, their yellow slickers bright against the weathered wooden docks. Boats bobbed in their moorings, their reflections shimmering in the water like fractured glass.

The mingling scents of brine, diesel, and salt air washed over her, and for a moment, Clara was transported back to a different time. She could almost feel the wooden planks of the dock beneath her teenage self, a younger Ethan at her side, his laughter mingling with the crash of the waves. Those evenings, endless in their simplicity, had felt like they belonged to someone else’s life now, the memory both soothing and deeply painful. The ache in her chest tightened, a bittersweet pang that seemed inseparable from this place.

Clara’s gaze wandered to a small café tucked into the curve of the harbor, its striped awning fluttering slightly in the breeze. It was a newer addition, but its warm light spilling onto the cobblestones made it feel as though it had always been there. The sight of it was a welcome reprieve. Without hesitation, she stepped inside, drawn by the hum of conversation and the promise of warmth.

The café was cozy but unassuming, its walls adorned with nautical decorations—rusted anchors, coiled ropes, faded maps of the New England coastline. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and baking pastries wrapped around her like a blanket as she ordered a cup of black coffee and retreated to a corner table by the window. From her seat, she could see the docks clearly, the scene beyond the glass framed like a painting.

And then she saw him.

Ethan Walsh stood at the edge of the harbor, a coil of rope slung over one shoulder. Even from a distance, Clara recognized the familiar slope of his shoulders and the steady, deliberate way he moved. His sandy blonde hair caught the sunlight, a few errant strands falling into his eyes as he worked to secure a small fishing boat. The tug of the rope, taut and firm in his hands, was a practiced motion, a quiet emblem of the strength she had once known so intimately.

Clara’s breath hitched, and she froze, her coffee cup hovering inches from her lips. She hadn’t expected to see him so soon—hadn’t prepared herself for this moment. Her heart thudded in her chest, her thoughts scrambling as her gaze remained fixed on him. Did he know she was back? Had the whispers already started weaving their way through the town? Would he care?

As if sensing her gaze, Ethan turned, his eyes sweeping the harbor in a slow, measured arc. Clara’s pulse quickened as his gaze drifted toward the café. For a brief, breathless moment, it seemed as though his eyes might find hers—but they passed over the window, unseeing. Clara exhaled, the tension in her chest loosening slightly, though not entirely. She lowered her cup, her hands trembling faintly as they wrapped around the warm ceramic.

But she knew the reprieve was temporary. The town was too small, the threads of their shared history too tightly woven. She couldn’t avoid him forever, no matter how much the thought of facing him made her stomach churn.

The soft chime of the café door opening jolted Clara from her thoughts. She glanced up instinctively—and there he was. Standing just inside the doorway, the coil of rope replaced by a quiet presence that seemed to fill the room. Ethan’s gaze swept across the café, and this time, his eyes landed on her. He stilled, his body visibly tensing for the briefest of moments.

Clara’s cheeks flushed under the weight of his gaze, her grip tightening on the coffee cup as though it might shield her from the inevitability of the moment. Her breath felt caught in her throat, her thoughts scrambling for some kind of anchor—or escape.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then, as though compelled by an invisible thread, Ethan crossed the room toward her, his steps measured and deliberate.

“Clara,” he said, his voice low and steady, tinged with a note of surprise. His blue eyes, achingly familiar, searched hers, though she couldn’t tell if it was for answers or barriers.

“Ethan,” she replied, her voice softer and more unsteady than she intended. She gestured toward the seat across from her, unsure if she truly wanted him to take it or if she simply didn’t know what else to do.

He hesitated, his hand lingering on the back of the chair. “I didn’t think you’d come back,” he said finally, his tone carefully neutral, though his eyes hinted at something deeper—a question, perhaps, or an unspoken emotion.

Clara forced a small smile, though it felt fragile in her own grasp. “Neither did I.”

Ethan nodded, his gaze still steady but cautious. After a moment, he pulled the chair out and sat, the space between them charged with the weight of all that had gone unsaid.

“How long have you been back?” he asked, his voice quiet yet even.

“A couple of days,” Clara admitted. Her throat tightened slightly as she added, “I’m staying at Eleanor’s house.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened, just barely, but Clara noticed it. She wondered if the mention of the house had dragged him into his own memories. “The old place,” he said. “It’s been empty for a long time.”

“I know,” Clara said softly. “It needs a lot of work. Repairs, cleaning…” She trailed off, realizing she was rambling as she searched his face for any trace of the boy she had once known. But his expression remained guarded, his silence unnerving her.

Before either of them could speak again, the café door chimed once more, and a new voice rang out, bright and insistent.

“Dad!”

Clara turned toward the voice, her breath catching as a teenage girl with long, straight blonde hair approached their table. The striking clarity of her blue eyes—Ethan’s eyes—made Clara’s chest tighten.

The girl stopped beside Ethan, her gaze flicking curiously to Clara. “Hi,” she said, her tone polite but edged with the bluntness of youth.

“Lily,” Ethan said, his voice softening in a way Clara hadn’t heard in years. “This is Clara. An old friend.”

Clara felt the word “friend” land like a pebble in her chest, creating ripples she couldn’t push aside. She managed a small smile, though it felt strained. “Hi, Lily. It’s nice to meet you.”

Lily’s sharp gaze lingered on Clara for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nodded. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Ethan shifted in his seat, glancing between the two of them before rising to his feet. “We should get going,” he said, his tone practical but edged with something unspoken. “I’ve got work to finish at the shop.”

Clara nodded, her throat tight as she forced herself to say, “Of course. It was good to see you, Ethan. And you, Lily.”

Ethan hesitated for a brief moment, his gaze meeting hers with something akin to unease—or perhaps longing—before he nodded. “Take care, Clara.”

She watched them leave, Ethan’s broad shoulders and Lily’s golden hair disappearing down the cobblestone street. For the first time in years, Clara felt the faintest pull of something she couldn’t quite name—a thread, delicate and fragile, but undeniably there.

And though she wasn’t sure she was ready to follow it, she knew she couldn’t ignore it forever.