I didn't go looking for him the next morning.
Not on the bluff. Not by the water. Not along the path behind the trees.
I told myself it was because I had other things to do. Pack. Clean. Maybe even figure out how I was going to explain to my friends that I'd spent two weeks talking to a man I couldn't describe without sounding completely out of my mind.
But really… I just didn't want to admit I was starting to feel like he might not come back.
I hadn't seen Alan in two days.
No messages.
No notes.
Not even one of his silent appearances.
He was just gone.
And I wasn't going to say it, but I felt it.
That he wasn't coming back.
The sun was high when I walked into town.
I didn't have a plan. I told myself I needed something from the market — something to bring home. A gift. A reason to be here. But I didn't buy anything.
I wandered.
Through the quiet streets, past the closed shops with their faded signs, past the bench where we once sat with ice cream that melted too fast.
It all looked the same.
But without him here, the colors felt duller.
I was heading back toward the cottage when I saw him — the man from the dock.
He was standing near the post office, holding a paper bag in one hand and squinting at something across the street. I didn't think. I just walked over.
"Hi," I said.
He turned, a little surprised. "Oh, hello again. From the fishing spot, right?"
"Yeah." I paused. "Sorry if I interrupted. I just—"
"No, not at all," he said. "Nice to see a familiar face."
We stood there for a beat, the street stretching quietly behind us.
"I never got your name," he added.
"Elaina."
"Harold," he said, offering a hand. I shook it. "Staying at the cottage near the bluff, right?"
"That's the one."
"Peaceful spot."
"Yeah. It is."
Another pause.
I don't know what made me say it.
"Do you remember what I said? About the person I was with that day? The one who left before you showed up?"
He tilted his head slightly. "Alan?"
I nodded.
For a second, I thought he'd shake his head again.
But then something changed in his expression.
"I've been thinking about that," he said slowly. "That name. Alan Mayer."
I swallowed. "Yeah?"
He looked down, frowning slightly. "I said I didn't know anyone by that name, but… that's not true."
My mouth went dry.
"There was an Alan Mayer," he said. "Lived here years ago. Quiet guy. Kept to himself. Nice enough. Went out on the water a lot."
My voice barely came out. "Years ago?"
He nodded. "Yeah. He… passed. I don't remember how long ago. Maybe five years now? Maybe more. Time gets fuzzy after a while."
The breeze blew through the street, gentle but cold.
I stared at him.
"I didn't put it together at first," Harold went on. "Didn't expect the name to come up again. But it stuck with me. And when I saw you just now, it hit me."
I shook my head, slowly. "No… he's—he's here. He's real."
Harold didn't say anything.
"I talked to him. I—I saw him," I insisted. "We went cycling. We fished. We—"
I broke off.
He looked at me with something too gentle to be pity.
"Elaina…" he said softly.
I stepped back. "I have to go."
He reached out slightly, like he might try to stop me, but didn't.
I turned and walked quickly, too fast to be casual but too slow to be running.
Back at the cottage, I sat on the porch steps and stared out at the sea.
I didn't cry.
Not yet.
I just sat there with my hands wrapped around a drink I couldn't remember pouring, trying to quiet the voice in my head that kept repeating the same thing.
He's gone. He was never here. He's gone.
But I couldn't believe it.
Not really.
Because I still remembered the way he laughed.
And the way he looked at me like I wasn't just passing through.
And the way everything felt like it made more sense when he was next to me.