The rain in Seabrook didn't fall so much as it misted, a fine, grey haze that settled over everything like a damp sigh. Elara Vance clutched the steering wheel of her rental car, her knuckles white, as the GPS cheerfully announced her arrival at her destination. She peered through the bleary windshield at the building before her.
"The Inkwell." The words were painted in faded gold script on the bay window, which was crammed with a haphazard pile of books. A hanging sign, shaped like an old-fashioned ink bottle, creaked on its hinges in the damp breeze. It was exactly as she remembered, and nothing like the sleek glass-and-steel structures she designed for a living.
It was a relic. A beautiful, crumbling, utterly impractical relic.
With a sigh that rivaled the weather, Elara killed the engine. The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the distant cry of a gull. This was not her element. Her element was the crisp hum of air conditioning, the snap of blueprints being unrolled, the satisfying click of a deadline met.
Not this… this quiet.
Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat. Mark (Work). She considered letting it go to voicemail, but habit won out.
"Elara. You in Podunk yet?" Mark's voice was a familiar anchor to her real world.
"Seabrook. And yes. Just arrived."
"Good. Get that property assessed, list it with a local agent, and get back here. The Henderson project is a beast, and I need my lead architect. This is a speed bump, Elara, not a detour."
"I know the drill, Mark." Her eyes scanned the shopfront, noting the peeling paint on the window trim. "It shouldn't take long."
"It better not. Don't get sentimental. It's just a building full of old paper."
Just a building. He hadn't known Grams. Maggie's entire soul was in this old paper.
After promising a quick return, she hung up. The silence rushed back in. Taking a deep breath, she shouldered the car door open and stepped into the mist.
The key was under the frog-shaped rock, exactly where Bea, the shop's longtime employee, had said it would be. The lock turned with a heavy, satisfying clunk.
The smell hit her first. Old paper, binding glue, lemon polish, and underneath it all, the faint, essential scent of her grandmother's rosewater perfume. It was a punch to the heart. Elara stood frozen in the doorway, her professional resolve wavering for a single, dangerous moment.
Shelves climbed every wall, overflowing. Books were stacked in precarious towers on the floor, filled a wingback chair by a cold fireplace, and covered a small round table. It was organized chaos, a stark contrast to the minimalist apartment she'd left in Boston.
Her architect's mind immediately began drafting a plan: Sort, categorize, donate, sell. One week, max.
As she took a step forward, a movement outside the window caught her eye. Through the veil of rain, in the equally charming but better-kept cottage next door, a man was standing on the porch.
He was tall, with dark, unruly hair and a scowling expression that was clear even from a distance. He wore a faded grey sweater and held a steaming mug, but he wasn't drinking from it. He was just staring. At her.
Elara met his gaze, a flicker of defiance rising in her chest. She was the intruder here, and he was clearly on guard.
The man didn't wave. He didn't nod. After a long, uncomfortable moment, he simply turned and went back inside, closing his door with a quiet but definite finality.
Well, Elara thought, pulling her suit jacket tighter around her. Welcome to Seabrook.