The old cottage smelled of lavender and rain. Amara dropped her suitcase by the doorway and let out a long breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The city, with all its noise and neon promises, was finally behind her. Here, the only sound was the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore.
Her grandmother's rocking chair creaked softly in the corner, untouched since last summer. For a moment, Amara almost expected to hear her warm laugh echo through the room. But the silence reminded her that this summer, she was here alone—alone with her thoughts, her unfinished dreams, and the sting of losing the job she'd worked so hard for.
She pushed open the window. A cool breeze swept in, carrying the scent of pine and something else…woodsmoke. Curious, she stepped outside, her sandals crunching against the gravel path.
And that's when she saw him.
By the dock, a man was bent over a pile of lumber, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sawdust clinging to his hair. He worked with quiet focus, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he lifted a beam into place.
Amara's heart did a strange little skip. She didn't know him—but he looked as if he belonged here, carved into the rhythm of the lake itself.
The man glanced up, catching her gaze. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, steady and unreadable. For a beat too long, neither of them spoke. Then, with a small nod, he returned to his work, leaving Amara standing there with the oddest feeling—that the summer she thought would be quiet might turn out to be anything but.