The next morning, the sky was the color of bruised fruit—deep purple, veined with grey. Rain came in thin whispers, like the town was weeping for her before she could do it herself.
Mara found herself in the old coffee shop by the marina. Somehow, it had survived the decay that swallowed everything else. Same cracked tile floor. Same rickety stools. Same chalkboard menu, though half the words were smudged into ghost handwriting.
She ordered black coffee and sat by the window, watching the boats sway like they were trying to leave but didn't know where to go.
"I didn't think anyone came back to this place," said a voice behind her.
She turned.
A man stood there—late thirties, maybe, with crow's feet that spoke of too much sun or too many regrets. He wore a blue flannel and held a book with no cover. Something about him felt… quiet. Like a walking pause.
Mara shrugged. "Guess I'm a cliché."
He smiled. "Me too."
He slid into the seat across from her without asking. Normally, she would've found it rude.
Now? It was almost comforting—like someone else remembered the town when it was still alive.
"I'm Jonah," he offered. "I used to fix boats down at the dock. Left for a while. Thought maybe it'd hurt less if I did."
Mara stirred her coffee. "Did it?"
"Depends on the day."
Flashback: Cracks in the Walls
They used to fight over dishes. Not because they mattered, but because everything else did.
"I just need some space," Eliot had said once, standing in the doorway with a cigarette he never lit.
"You have all the space in the world," Mara snapped. "You just don't want me in it."
He flinched. She hated that she had learned how to aim with words.
They went days without talking. Weeks sleeping back to back. She wrote letters she never sent. He played songs she never heard.
But the silence between them said more than their mouths ever did. We fall, she had thought, but not all at once. Piece by piece. Word by word.
Back in the café…
Mara finally asked, "Why'd you come back?"
Jonah looked out the window.
"My wife used to sit right where you're sitting. Every morning. Even after the cancer started eating everything but her voice. She said this place made her feel real. I guess I come back to see if I still exist too."
Mara swallowed hard.
"Sorry," she said.
He shook his head. "Don't be. Grief's not something to apologize for."
She looked at him closely. "How do you stop it from turning you into someone you don't recognize?"
Jonah didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was low, almost fragile.
"You don't. You just keep showing up to the places that hurt. Until they don't."
When Mara left the café, the rain had cleared. A bird landed on the windowsill briefly, shaking out its feathers. She thought of Eliot again—not the man who left, but the boy who once made her laugh so hard she dropped her ice cream.
They weren't villains. They were just tired people trying to save each other before saving themselves.
That night, she returned to the cottage again. This time, she brought paper. She sat cross-legged on the floor and began to write—not to Eliot, not to Jonah—but to the girl she used to be.
Dear me,
I forgive you for wanting too much.
I forgive you for building love out of desperation.
I forgive you for staying quiet when you should have screamed.
You were doing your best with what you had. And maybe that's enough.
Outside, the wind shifted. The ocean kept breathing.