The first morning in Eastport began not with an alarm clock, but with light. A pale, silvery dawn light filtered through the unadorned windows of the apartment, painting the bare walls in soft gradients of grey and gold. Trisha awoke to the sound of the sea—a constant, gentle shushing that had been the soundtrack of their night. For a disorienting moment, she didn't know where she was. Then she saw the unfamiliar shape of the window against the wall, the stacked boxes in the corner, and the feeling of George's solid warmth beside her. Eastport. Home.
She slipped out of bed, the hardwood floors cool under her feet, and padded into the kitchen. The welcome basket from Barbara Smith sat on the table like a promise of good things to come. She put the kettle on, and the familiar ritual of making tea—finding mugs, the click of the switch, the eventual rumble of boiling water—felt like planting a flag in this new territory.
Soon, the small apartment was filled with the sounds of morning. George emerged, yawning, already dressed in a pair of khakis and a polo shirt—his 'country doctor' outfit, he'd joked. He poured himself a colossal cup of coffee from the French press he'd unpacked first thing.
"Ready to heal the masses?" Trisha asked, handing him a travel mug.
"Ready to meet them, first," he said, taking a grateful sip. "Clinic doesn't open for new patients until next week, but I'm meeting the nurse and office manager today. A Ms. Leda Marsh. Sounds formidable on the phone."
Amelia stumbled out next, drawn by the smell of toast. She was already dressed, a minor miracle, in jeans and a hoodie, her hair a contained chaos of braids. "I can't believe I have to go to school today," she mumbled, sliding into a chair.
"It's just to meet the principal and get your schedule, honey," Trisha said, placing a plate of toast and a bowl of Barbara's jam in front of her. "It'll be painless."
Mike was last, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his dinosaur pajamas rumpled. He went straight to Trisha for a hug, burying his face in her robe. She kissed the top of his head. Good morning, my love, she signed against his back.
The morning was a dance in an unfamiliar kitchen. Trisha found the lunchboxes and made peanut butter and jam sandwiches, adding apple slices and a handful of crackers to each. It felt profoundly normal, this act of preparing her children for a day in a new world. She signed to Mike, explaining the plan for the day—school first, then her new job.
George kissed them all goodbye, his demeanor a mix of excitement and nerves. "Wish me luck," he said, heading out the door with his doctor's bag in hand. "Don't let the locals run you out of town on a rail, Trish."
"We'll do our best," she laughed.
Once he was gone, she shepherded the kids downstairs and out onto Water Street. The morning was crisp and bright, the air so clean it felt like a new substance in her lungs. The town was slowly coming to life. A shopkeeper across the street was sweeping his steps. The same woman from yesterday was in her garden, this time wearing a sunhat. She smiled and gave a little wave. Trisha waved back.
The walk to Eastport Elementary was short and beautiful, along a sidewalk lined with blooming hydrangeas. The school was a handsome, red-brick building with a modern addition, clearly well-funded and cared for. The principal, Mr. Albright, was a kindly man in his fifties with a firm handshake and a warm, immediate manner with the children. He spoke directly to Mike, and when Trisha explained about his hearing and speech impairment, he nodded thoughtfully.
"We have a wonderful resource teacher, Mrs. Brennan," he said. "She's trained in ASL and works with several of our students. Mike will be in good hands." He turned to Amelia. "And Amelia, I've asked Sarah Jenkins, one of our eighth graders, to show you around today. She's a good egg. You'll like her."
Amelia offered a tentative smile. It was more than Trisha had hoped for.
Leaving them there, in the bright, cheerful office, felt like a leap of faith. But Mike gave her a brave thumbs-up, and Amelia was already looking curiously at a poster for the school's sailing club. They would be okay.
Now it was her turn.
She walked back down Water Street, her heels clicking a rhythm on the pavement. She stopped in front of the two-story brick building. The gold lettering on the window, EASTPORT CHRONICLE — EST. 1882, was flaked with age but still legible. She took a deep breath, smoothed her blouse, and opened the door.
A bell jingled overhead, a sweet, ancient sound.
The interior was a time capsule. The air smelled of old paper, ink, and dust—a smell Trisha, as a former print journalist, found oddly comforting and heartbreakingly familiar. The front room was a reception area with a worn wooden counter. Behind it, the main room was dominated by a beast of a machine: a massive, hulking letterpress printer, its iron parts dark with oil and age, looking like a sleeping dragon from the last century.
"Trisha! You're here!"
Barbara Smith emerged from a back office, her silver hair a vibrant cloud and her smile wide. She wore a colourful smock over her clothes, spotted with what looked like a faint ink stain. "Welcome, welcome! Come in, don't be shy."
"This place is amazing," Trisha said, her voice full of genuine awe as she stepped further in. Her eyes scanned the room. Wooden type cases lined one wall, each little compartment holding a universe of leaden letters. Galleys filled with composed type sat on a stone-topped table. And in the corner, on two large, battered desks, sat the computers.
They were relics. Beige monstrosities with bulky cathode-ray tube monitors that looked like they hadn't been updated since the late 1990s. The word "Windows 95" came unbidden to Trisha's mind.
Barbara followed her gaze and laughed, a rich, rolling sound. "I know, I know. Our tech is… historical. That one there," she pointed to the slightly less dusty computer, "is for the current edition. Fred—he's our typesetter, printer, janitor, and local history buff—he's the only one who knows how to make it sing. The other one is for archives. I'm not sure it even turns on anymore."
She led Trisha past the press to a small, cluttered desk by a window that looked out onto the street. A newer, sleek laptop sat open on it, looking utterly alien in its surroundings.
"This is my concession to the 21st century," Barbara said. "Email, internet, paying bills online. The important things. But the soul of this paper…" she gestured around the room, at the press, the type cases, the bound volumes of every edition ever printed lining the shelves, "…is right here."
She turned to Trisha, her expression becoming earnest. "This paper is the town's memory, Trisha. We report the births, the deaths, the town council meetings, the high school sports scores, the fishing catches. We don't have crime here, really. No scandals to speak of. But we have stories. And I need someone who knows how to find them and tell them. Someone who remembers that journalism is about people, not clicks."
Trisha felt a thrill, a spark she hadn't felt in years. This wasn't just a job; it was a calling. A throwback to the very roots of her profession.
"What would you have me do first?" Trisha asked, her fingers itching for a notebook.
Barbara's eyes twinkled. "First, I'd like you to meet the technology. Fred is out today, so you're on your own. The festival is our next big edition. The schedule of events is in a folder on that desktop." She pointed to the beige computer. "See if you can open it and maybe type up a little preview for the front page. Consider it an archaeological dig."
Barbara left her to it, retreating to her office to handle invoices.
Trisha sat down at the ancient computer. The chair creaked. She pressed the power button. The machine whirred to life with a sound like a distant lawnmower, the monitor flickering and glowing a hazy green. It took five full minutes to boot up, finally presenting her with a pixelated desktop background of a lighthouse.
She found the folder. The document was in a word processing program she hadn't seen since college. She fumbled with the commands, her muscle memory slowly, slowly returning. The keys were stiff and clacky under her fingers.
As she worked, transcribing the festival's events—a parade, a blessing of the fleet, a picnic, a dance—she felt a profound sense of peace. Through the window, she saw the slow, rhythmic life of the town pass by. There was no hustle, no panic. Here, in this room thick with the smell of ink and history, the news could wait for the machine to boot up. It could wait for the right word to be found. It could wait for the story to reveal itself.
She was home.