The days grew longer in Dawnridge, but time inside Lena's cottage passed like a lazy tide—soft, uncertain, and always shifting. The town hummed quietly beyond her windows, yet her world had grown into something smaller and strangely more alive. Especially since Eli had begun appearing more often on her porch, coffee in hand and silence as his greeting.
It was one of those overcast mornings when Lena opened the door to find him waiting, the scent of sawdust and salt clinging to him. He didn't smile, but his eyes held a calm patience she had come to recognize.
"I thought you weren't a morning person," she said, raising a brow.
He handed her the coffee. "You bring out strange things in me."
Lena took the cup, hiding a smile behind the rim. They walked along the narrow trail behind the cottage, a path worn down by her quiet wanderings and now, by their shared footsteps. It led to the dunes, where grass danced in the breeze and the sea whispered secrets only the broken could hear.
They didn't speak for a while. Eli never pushed. And Lena was starting to find comfort in that space between words, where healing lived.
It was she who broke the silence. "I used to paint every morning. Before."
He looked over, his brows lifting.
"I'd sit by the window with tea. Paint what I dreamt of the night before." She hesitated, voice catching on memory. "After Daniel... I stopped dreaming."
Eli nodded slowly, understanding without asking for more.
They sat on a weathered bench overlooking the tide. After a moment, Eli reached into his jacket and pulled out a small bundle. A folded cloth. When Lena opened it, her breath hitched. Inside was a set of well-used, but clean, paintbrushes. Soft, familiar, like old friends returned.
"I found them in a shop in town," he said. "Didn't know if you had any left."
Lena stared at the brushes, then at him. There was something raw in her eyes—something grateful and scared. "Why would you do this?"
"Because I think there's still color in you," Eli said simply. "And because I know what it's like to lose the pieces that make you feel whole."
Her throat tightened. She looked back at the sea. "What did you lose?"
Eli didn't answer right away. His jaw worked, tension barely restrained. Then, in a voice roughened by something deeper than wind, he said, "My brother. Years ago. We were out on the water. A storm came in fast. He didn't make it back."
Lena turned to him, her breath shallow.
"I built boats with him," Eli continued. "We used to talk about fixing up this old fishing vessel—turning it into something new. After he died, I found the hull rotting in an abandoned yard. I couldn't bring myself to touch it."
Until now, she thought.
"Come see it," he said, standing. "If you want."
She followed him through winding streets until they reached the edge of town, where the scent of pine and salt grew heavier. Hidden behind a crumbling shed, surrounded by wild roses and time, was the boat.
It wasn't much yet. A frame, skeleton-like, the wood pale and raw in places, darker and worn in others. But it stood—unfinished, unbowed. Like Eli. Like her.
"I started again two months ago," he said. "Didn't know why. Just felt like maybe it was time."
Lena stepped closer, her fingers brushing the wood. It felt warm beneath her touch. Solid.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
"It will be."
They stood in silence, the wind threading between them. Then Lena turned to him. "I want to paint it."
He looked at her, surprised.
"I want to paint this boat," she repeated. "For your brother. For you. For both of us."
Something shifted in his eyes then—a softness, a flicker of emotion that bordered on something deeper. "Then come by tomorrow. We'll work on it together."
Lena nodded.
And for the first time in a long while, she returned home that night and set up her easel.
---
The next evening, when Eli came by with more supplies, he found her porch scattered with color—paint tubes, brushes, a half-finished canvas catching the pink of the fading sky.
He paused, watching her work. She didn't notice at first. But when she did, her expression lit up with something rare—peace.
"You're really doing it," he murmured.
"I am."
Later, after she cleaned her brushes, they sat again by the shore. The tide was rising, the stars like quiet spectators. And something in the air had shifted. Braver now. Closer.
Eli reached out slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. She leaned into the touch, eyes closing.
"I don't know what this is yet," he said, voice hushed, "but I know it matters."
Lena opened her eyes, meeting his. "So do I."
He bent toward her, pausing for a breath—and then their lips met. It wasn't urgent. It was gentle. Honest. The kind of kiss that didn't try to fix the broken, only said I see you. I'm here.
And for the first time in years, Lena believed she could be whole again.