By morning, the storm had passed, leaving the town washed clean and glimmering. Sunlight spilled across the harbor, catching on puddles and rooftops like tiny mirrors. But inside Hannah Reed's house, the quiet felt heavy again — too neat, too ordered.
She stood by the window with her coffee, watching the street below. Neighbors waved to one another as they went about their morning routines, their lives as steady as clockwork. Hannah envied that steadiness — the comfort of never questioning where you belonged.
But she hadn't slept much. Every time she'd closed her eyes, she'd seen Emma standing by the cliffs, hair tangled by the wind, looking at the sea like she was seeing something no one else could. The memory tugged at her chest — not sharp, but insistent, like a song that wouldn't fade.
She told herself it had been a coincidence. A quiet evening shared with someone who'd once been part of her world. Nothing more.
But that was a lie, and she knew it.
By noon, she was at the community center, leading a small workshop for parents about student wellbeing. Her words came out steady, practiced — all the right phrases about balance, communication, mindfulness.
Yet halfway through, she caught herself saying, "Sometimes, we forget that it's okay to start over. Even when it scares us."
She hadn't meant to say it. But the truth of it echoed inside her long after the session ended.
Meanwhile, across town, Emma was at the old Lawson house, sunlight streaming through the kitchen window as she sorted through her aunt's things. She found a box of old photographs — black-and-white images of Willow Harbor in its early days. Boats, storms, people smiling stiffly for the camera.
And tucked among them, a photo of her aunt standing outside the café with a woman Hannah's age. On the back, in faded ink: June 1987 — best days of our lives.
Emma smiled faintly, tracing the words. She'd always known her aunt had secrets — stories she never told. Maybe Willow Harbor wasn't as small-minded as she'd thought. Or maybe some people had just been brave enough not to care.
When the phone rang, she jumped.
It was the local gallery owner, Mara Jensen, her voice brisk and warm.
"Emma! I heard you're back. We're planning a showcase next month — local artists only. You have to join."
Emma hesitated. "It's been a long time since I've shown anything."
"Then it's time," Mara said. "Come by tomorrow. We'll talk."
When the call ended, Emma sat back, heart thrumming. The idea scared her — putting herself out there again, letting people see her work. But then she thought of Hannah's words the day before: Maybe you just need to fill it with something new.
That evening, Hannah stopped by the grocery store on her way home. As she stepped out of her car, she spotted Emma across the parking lot — hair pulled into a loose bun, a paint-stained smudge on her wrist, laughing with the cashier as she balanced a carton of milk and a bag of apples.
Hannah froze for a second, that same flutter of warmth and panic rushing through her. She almost turned away, but Emma looked up at that exact moment and smiled — open, unguarded, like nothing about their last meeting needed explanation.
"Hannah!" she called. "Hey."
There was no reason to say no. So Hannah walked over, her pulse quickening despite herself.
"Hey," she said softly. "Running errands?"
"Trying to remember how to be a functioning adult," Emma said with a grin. "Still failing."
Hannah laughed — and it was the first real laugh she'd had all day. "You seem to be doing fine."
"Want to test that theory?" Emma asked, nodding toward the little café beside the store. "Coffee's on me."
Hannah hesitated for only a second. Then she nodded. "Alright."
They walked inside together, the bell chiming overhead.
And though neither said it out loud, both felt it — that something had shifted between them. Not sudden, not reckless, but real.
Something worth not running from anymore.