Chapter 3 — Echoes from Home

Sophie

The morning frost still clung to the windows as Sophie approached Mary Thompson's small clapboard house, her breath fogging the air in quick bursts. The warmth of the sun was deceptive, barely cutting through the sharp chill as she tightened the scarf around her neck. The house stood modestly at the edge of a narrow gravel lane, its faded blue paint blending into the worn grays and greens of the surrounding landscape. A curl of smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, promising warmth and solace within.

She hesitated at the porch, her gloved hand hovering above the weathered doorframe. There was a faint hum of an old country tune from within, the muffled strains of fiddle and guitar mixing with the sound of something sizzling on a stove. Sophie steeled herself, adjusting her coat as though it were armor, then knocked lightly.

The door opened almost immediately, revealing Mary Thompson, her gray curls loosely bundled atop her head and an apron smeared with flour tied over her sweater. "Well, look who’s here," Mary said with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. There was no judgment in her gaze, just a calm curiosity that made Sophie feel both welcome and unmoored.

"Good morning, Mary," Sophie said, her voice more formal than she’d intended.

"Morning, dear. Don’t just stand there freezing your toes off. Come in." Mary waved her inside, stepping back to let Sophie enter.

The kitchen greeted her with a rush of warmth, the air thick with the mingling aromas of yeast, coffee, and something sweet and spicy that Sophie couldn’t quite place. Jars of preserves lined the shelves, their jewel-toned contents glinting in the light streaming through the curtains. The wood-burning stove crackled softly, its heat wrapping around her like an embrace.

Here and there, small details caught Sophie’s attention: dented copper pots hanging above the counter, a stack of frayed recipe cards on the shelf, and an old photograph tucked into the corner of the window frame. In the picture, her father stood beside Mary, a younger version of her father—his dark hair streaked lightly with gray, his smile broad as he held up a prize catch. The sight of him, so alive and full of purpose, tightened something in Sophie’s chest.

"Here," Mary said, handing Sophie a steaming mug of coffee before she could refuse. Sophie accepted it, grateful for something to do with her hands. She cradled the mug as she sat at the scarred kitchen table, its surface worn smooth by years of use.

"Smells wonderful in here," Sophie offered, glancing around at the room’s lived-in charm. It was a stark contrast to the sleek, impersonal spaces she was used to in New York.

"Just a batch of cinnamon rolls going," Mary said, bustling back to the counter. "They’re for the church bake sale, but I always keep a few extras for visitors." She glanced over her shoulder, her sharp eyes softening. "Not that we’ve had many visitors lately."

Sophie shifted uncomfortably, her fingers tightening around the mug. "I’m sorry I didn’t come by sooner. Things have been... hectic."

Mary turned, leaning against the counter and wiping her hands on her apron. "I imagine they have. Losing your father, coming back here after so long—it’s a lot to handle."

The mention of her father was like a pebble dropped into a still pond, sending ripples through Sophie’s carefully maintained composure. She looked down into her coffee, the dark liquid reflecting her face back at her. "I didn’t expect it to be this hard," she admitted, her voice quieter.

Mary nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Your father was a complicated man, Sophie. Stubborn as a mule when he set his mind to something, but his heart was always in the right place." She crossed to the table, sitting across from Sophie and folding her hands. "He cared deeply about this town, about the market. But more than anything, he cared about you. He just didn’t always know how to show it."

Sophie’s head snapped up at that, her hazel eyes narrowing slightly. "He had a funny way of showing it," she said, her voice edged with both bitterness and hesitation.

Mary’s gaze didn’t waver. "He wasn’t perfect, I’ll grant you that. But everything he did, he did with the hope that one day you’d see the value in it."

Sophie leaned back in her chair, the words settling uneasily in her chest. "I always felt like he chose the market over us," she said, her voice quieter now. "Over me. He was so consumed by keeping it afloat that there was nothing left for anything else."

Mary sighed, her fingers tracing an invisible pattern on the table. "He wasn’t good with words, your father. Didn’t always know how to show what he was feeling. But he loved you, Sophie. Used to sit right here at this table and talk about all the things you’d accomplished, even if he didn’t say it to your face. When the market was at its worst, I’d find him staring at that old picture of you two over there." She nodded toward the photograph by the window. "He’d tell me he hoped you’d understand one day why he worked so hard to keep it alive."

Sophie blinked, caught off guard by the sudden tightness in her throat. She looked again at the photograph, her younger self perched on her father’s shoulders, her face bright with laughter. The memory of that day had long since faded, but now it flickered faintly in her mind.

"It doesn’t change the fact that the market is a mess now," she said, her voice growing quiet again. "He left it to me, but I don’t know if I’m the right person to fix it."

"Maybe you’re not," Mary said simply, her words cutting through Sophie’s self-pity like a knife. Sophie stared at her, stunned by the bluntness, but Mary’s expression softened as she continued. "But maybe that’s not the point. The market doesn’t just need fixing, Sophie. It needs someone who cares enough to fight for it."

"I don’t know if I care," Sophie admitted, her voice barely audible.

"Don’t you?" Mary asked, her eyes searching Sophie’s face.

Sophie opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Did she care? She thought of the fishermen’s wary stares at the harbor, Jack’s cutting words, and the weight of her father’s legacy pressing down on her shoulders. She thought of the black-and-white photographs in the market office, the ghost of her father’s presence in every creak of the floorboards.

"I don’t know," she said finally, the admission feeling heavier than she expected.

Mary reached across the table, her hand warm and steady as it rested on Sophie’s. "That’s all right, dear. Sometimes it takes time to figure out what really matters. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that this town has a way of revealing what’s in your heart, whether you’re ready for it or not."

The sincerity in her voice made Sophie’s chest ache. She nodded mutely, her throat too tight to speak.

"Now," Mary said briskly, withdrawing her hand and standing up. "Let me send you off with something to eat. You’ll think clearer on a full stomach."

Sophie smiled faintly, the gesture small but genuine. Mary’s practicality was oddly comforting, grounding her in a way she hadn’t felt since stepping off the plane.

As Mary wrapped up a warm cinnamon roll in wax paper, Sophie’s gaze drifted to the window. The forest loomed just beyond the edge of the yard, its dense shadows inviting and foreboding all at once. She remembered running through those woods as a child, her father’s laughter echoing behind her as they chased each other down winding trails.

Her voice was soft when she spoke again. "Did he ever talk about me? I mean, about why he didn’t try harder to—" She stopped, the words catching.

Mary turned, her expression gentle. "He didn’t talk about why, Sophie. But he talked about you. He kept every letter you ever sent, even the short ones. And when you stopped writing, he used to say he hoped you were happy, even if he wasn’t part of it."

Sophie felt the sting of tears but blinked them away before they could fall. "Thank you," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

Mary handed her the bundle, her smile warm. "You’re welcome, dear. And don’t be a stranger. This town has enough ghosts as it is."

Sophie nodded, clutching the cinnamon roll tightly as she stepped out into the cold. The wind was brisk but she hardly felt it, her thoughts swirling like the snowflakes beginning to fall.

She glanced back at the house as she walked away, its windows glowing softly against the encroaching gray of the sky. Despite herself, she felt a flicker of something—something fragile but undeniable—fluttering to life within her.

Maybe Mary was right. Maybe this town would show her what really mattered.

But it wasn’t going to be easy.

With a deep breath, Sophie tightened her scarf and headed back toward the market, her steps just a little more certain than they’d been before.