The second morning in the apartment on Water Street was less about the novelty of light and more about the mechanics of a new routine. The sea still whispered its constant hymn, but today it was background music to the clatter of cereal bowls and the search for a single, missing left sneaker.
Trisha stood at the counter, a line of tension between her shoulders as she meticulously spread peanut butter on whole wheat bread. Lunchboxes. Such a simple, domestic ritual, yet today it felt weighted. She was packaging up pieces of her heart and sending them out into the unknown. For Mike, into the quiet challenge of a new classroom. For Amelia, into the gauntlet of teenage social hierarchies. And for herself, into the dusty, time-warped embrace of the Eastport Chronicle.
George bustled into the kitchen, already shrugging on his light jacket. He smelled of soap and aftershave, a clean, professional scent. He grabbed the travel mug of coffee she'd left for him and planted a quick kiss on her cheek.
"Nervous?" he asked, his voice low.
"A little," she admitted, sealing Mike's lunchbox with a definitive click. "Aren't you?"
"Terrified," he said with a bright, confident grin that completely belied the word. "But it's a good terror. Like the first day of surgery rotation. All you can do is know your stuff and be kind." He glanced toward the children's rooms and lowered his voice further. "They'll be great. We'll all be great."
He headed for the door, calling out, "Bye, team! Don't let the lobsters bite!" The door clicked shut behind him, leaving a sudden quiet in his wake.
Amelia emerged next, her face a mask of studied nonchalance that couldn't quite hide the anxiety in her eyes. She'd chosen her outfit with care—a vintage band t-shirt and jeans she'd artfully distressed herself. Armor.
"Principal Albright said a girl named Sarah is showing me around," she said, grabbing an apple and leaning against the counter.
"That's nice of her," Trisha said, signing a simplified version for Mike, who had just wandered in, one sneaker on, the other in his hand. Friend. Help you.
Mike nodded, looking more intrigued than worried. School was a visual landscape for him, a map of faces and expressions to read. New places were often easier than new people.
The walk to Eastport Elementary was different this time. The sun was higher, the town more awake. A man unloading crates of vegetables from a truck outside the grocery store nodded to them. "Mornin'." A woman walking a fluffy white dog smiled. "Welcome." The gestures were small, effortless. They were noticed, but it didn't feel like they were being scrutinized for their color; they were being acknowledged as new pieces of the scenery. It was a subtle, but crucial, difference.
In the principal's office, the meeting was brief and efficient. Mike was whisked away by a smiling Mrs. Brennan, who signed a cheerful Hello, Mike! Follow me! with an easy fluency that made Trisha's heart unclench a fraction. Amelia was collected by a tall, freckled girl with a friendly, open face and a thick red braid—Sarah, who immediately launched into a torrent of words about their first-period science class.
Trisha stood alone for a moment in the quiet hallway, the sounds of locker doors and youthful chatter echoing around her. They were in the machine now. All she could do was hope it was a kind one.
She took a steadying breath and turned toward her own first day.
The bell on the Chronicle's door announced her arrival again. This time, the smell of old paper and ink was familiar, a scent she was already starting to associate with possibility.
Barbara looked up from her modern laptop, her silver hair catching the morning light from the window. "Trisha! Perfect timing. I have a mission for you that involves technological archaeology." She gestured to the beige relic of a computer. "The master schedule for the Celebration of the Return is buried somewhere on that machine. I need you to unearth it, and if you're feeling brave, start drafting a front-page preview."
Trisha nodded, hanging her bag on the back of the chair. "I accept the challenge."
The computer, as before, took an age to boot up. The low hum and flickering screen gave her time to really look around. She noticed the fine layer of dust on the letterpress's great iron lever, the perfectly organized chaos of the type cases, each tiny compartment holding a universe of backwards letters. It was a museum, but a living one.
She found the file—a document saved in a format so old her modern laptop would have scoffed at it. The word processing software was a blast from the past, with clunky menus and a blinking, green cursor. Her fingers, so used to the feather-light touch of a modern keyboard, had to pound on the keys to get a response.
As she began transcribing the festival events—Blessing of the Fleet, 10:00 AM at the main dock; Historical Society Exhibit on the Eleusinian Mysteries, all day at the Town Hall; Community Picnic, 1:00 PM in Harbor Park—she fell into a slow, deliberate rhythm. There was no autosave. No spell check. Every word was a conscious commitment. It was maddening. And it was utterly glorious. This wasn't churning out content; this was typesetting, in a digital Stone Age kind of way.
She was so engrossed she didn't hear the door open. A throat cleared softly. An older man stood there, grizzled and lean, with hands that looked like they'd been carved from driftwood. He wore ink-stained coveralls.
"You must be the new one," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "I'm Fred. Heard the machine groaning from down the street. Knew it wasn't Barbara."
Trisha smiled. "Trisha Reeves. And yes, I'm terrorizing your equipment."
He gave a short, bark-like laugh that turned into a cough. "She's a stubborn old girl, but she's loyal. You get stuck, you holler." He nodded once and moved past her to lovingly wipe down the great, silent press with a rag.
Trisha turned back to her screen, feeling, for the first time, like she might actually belong here.
At the school, Amelia followed Sarah Jenkins through the bustling halls. The stares were there, quick little glances of curiosity, but Sarah's loud, friendly narration acted like a forcefield.
"...and that's Mr. Davies, he teaches history and is, like, a hundred years old but he knows everything about this place… oh, hey, Chloe! This is Amelia, she's new!... ignore them, they're juniors and think they own the place…"
Amelia felt her shoulders slowly relax. It was just a school. The kids here wore the same brands, had the same phones, laughed at the same things. Her skin color was noted, she could see it in the double-takes, but it wasn't a thing. She was just the new girl.
In art class, the teacher, seeing her interest, asked if she'd like to help design a poster for the town festival. It was a tiny thread, offered without fanfare. Amelia took it.
And in the resource room, Mike sat at a small table with Mrs. Brennan and another boy. Mrs. Brennan was showing them pictures of different fish found in the Eastport channel. She signed the names slowly. Lobster. Crab. Mackerel. Mike watched, utterly absorbed. The other boy, Elijah, pointed to a picture of a squid and made a funny face, wiggling his fingers above his head like tentacles. Mike giggled, a silent, shaking laugh that was the most beautiful sound Trisha couldn't hear.
He wasn't just learning. He was making a friend.
At her desk, Trisha finally finished her draft. She leaned back, her neck stiff. The text was simple, but she felt a surge of pride. She had wrestled the ancient machine and won.
Barbara came over to read it, peering over her shoulder. "Excellent. Perfect tone. Fred will set the type tomorrow."
"Set the type?" Trisha asked. "You don't just print it from the computer?"
Barbara's laugh was a rich, joyful thing. "Oh, goodness, no. That computer is for writing. The printing is done the proper way. You'll see."
The afternoon sun slanted through the dusty windows, illuminating the motes of dust dancing in the air. Trisha looked at the monstrous, beautiful press, at Fred lovingly oiling its joints, at Barbara's kind, capable face.
It was slow. It was antiquated. It was the polar opposite of the fast-paced digital newsroom she'd left behind.
And as she saved her document onto a floppy disk—a floppy disk!—with a satisfying mechanical click, she realized she hadn't felt this much like a real journalist in years.