The sea always remembered.
It whispered against the shore like an old friend reluctant to speak of the past, and yet, somehow, it never let Ethan Cole forget. The waves that curled along the jagged rocks below the bluff were the same ones that had carried away his childhood laughter, his parents' voices, and every promise he once believed in.
Now, five years later, the wind carried only ghosts.
The car engine died with a low groan as Ethan pulled into the gravel drive that wound toward Cole Vineyards. The sign at the gate still bore his family's crest — an embossed grapevine that looked more like a noose now than a symbol of legacy. He stepped out, boots crunching against the damp gravel, and inhaled the salt-sweet air that always smelled like endings.
He hadn't meant to come back. Not really. But when the lawyer called and said the vineyard had been left to him outright — all debts, assets, and problems included — he'd realized he was out of excuses.
The place stood exactly as he remembered it and yet entirely different. The main house rose like a relic from the past — pale blue paint fading, shutters askew, ivy strangling the porch railings. The vineyard itself stretched across the coastal hills, rows of vines brown and brittle from neglect. His uncle, Richard Cole, had promised to care for it after Ethan left. Of course, Richard had promised a lot of things.
Ethan pulled his jacket tighter. The wind had a bite to it, sharp enough to make him wonder if the town would welcome him back or freeze him out entirely.
A distant rumble rolled across the horizon — thunder, faint but growing.
He turned toward the sea. The clouds were gathering quickly, bruised and heavy, pushing across the water with an urgency that mirrored the ache in his chest. Maine storms never did believe in patience.
As he reached for his duffel in the back seat, a voice startled him.
"Excuse me! You can't park there — delivery trucks still use this path."
Ethan turned, blinking rain from his lashes as the first drops began to fall.
A woman stood a few yards away, hair whipping in the wind. She held a clipboard like a weapon, her expression fierce but her eyes impossibly steady — gray, like the sky before lightning. Her raincoat clung to her frame, dark curls escaping from the hood.
"I'm not blocking anyone," Ethan said, his voice rough from disuse. "And I don't see any trucks."
"They're late," she replied, stepping closer. "But they'll come. They always do — right when it's least convenient."
There was something sharp about her tone, but not cruel. She stopped short of him, studying his face as if trying to place it.
"You're not one of the contractors," she finally said. "You're—"
"Ethan Cole," he finished quietly.
Her eyes widened just slightly. "The owner."
"I suppose that's what the paperwork says."
For a moment, only the wind spoke between them. Then she nodded, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear. "I'm Aria Bennett. I manage event planning for the vineyard now."
Ethan frowned. "Event planning?"
"Yes," she said, unflinching. "Your uncle hired me last spring. Weddings, fundraisers, wine tastings — the only things keeping this place from collapsing entirely."
He absorbed that, glancing toward the main house again. "So he managed to turn the vineyard into a party venue. Figures."
Aria's jaw tightened, but she didn't rise to the bait. "If you came to criticize, you picked a bad time. There's a storm coming, and half the storage sheds haven't been sealed. We've got twenty minutes before the rain floods the north rows."
Ethan looked past her toward the vineyard. She was right — the dark clouds were rushing closer, swallowing the last of the light. He could already smell the metallic tang of incoming rain.
"Fine," he said, tossing his duffel back into the car. "What do you need me to do?"
For the briefest second, surprise flickered across her face. "You're volunteering?"
"I'm not completely useless," he muttered.
A faint smile threatened her lips, but she turned quickly toward the path. "Come on, then. The tarps are behind the fermentation shed."
They jogged through the vines, the wind pushing harder with each step. Ethan couldn't help noticing how confidently Aria moved through the rows, her boots sure on the uneven ground. She didn't glance back to see if he followed.
When the rain finally broke, it came all at once — a furious downpour that blurred the hills into silver streaks. They reached the shed, drenched within seconds.
Ethan grabbed a tarp and climbed onto a low stack of barrels to secure it. The wind yanked at the fabric like a living thing. Below him, Aria anchored the edges, hair plastered to her cheeks.
"You sure you know what you're doing?" she shouted over the storm.
"Not remotely," he called back.
Lightning split the sky, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. The barrels wobbled beneath him. Aria looked up just in time to see one start to roll.
"Ethan, move!" she yelled — but before he could react, she lunged forward, shoving him out of the way. The barrel crashed down where he'd been standing a second earlier, splintering the wooden platform.
They landed hard, Ethan on his back, Aria half on top of him, breathless and soaked. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Rain hammered against the tin roof, and the air between them felt charged, alive.
"Are you—" she started, but her voice faltered when she met his eyes.
"I'm fine," he said, though his heart was pounding.
Their faces were inches apart. Water dripped from her lashes, her breath warm against his cheek. Something in his chest shifted — an old, forgotten pulse of wanting, the kind he'd promised himself he'd buried years ago.
Aria pushed herself up, cheeks flushed despite the cold. "You're welcome," she said, her tone brisk again.
He managed a faint smile. "You always tackle strangers in storms, or am I just lucky?"
"I save the ones who don't listen."
They stood, shaking the rain from their clothes. The tarp held, mostly. The barrels were safe. But the vineyard around them looked even more broken now — vines bent under the storm's weight, soil already pooling with water.
Aria exhaled, shoulders tense. "This place is a disaster waiting to happen."
Ethan glanced around, the ache in his chest deepening. "It used to be beautiful."
She studied him for a moment. "Then maybe you can make it that way again."
He wanted to tell her she didn't understand — that beauty didn't survive betrayal. That everything his family had touched was already poisoned. But her eyes, calm and steady, made the words die on his tongue.
Instead, he said, "I'll need to see the financial reports. And whatever my uncle left behind."
Aria hesitated. "There's an office in the main house. He kept everything there. But—"
"But what?"
She hesitated. "It's… not easy to go through. He wasn't the most organized man."
Ethan almost laughed at that — a short, humorless sound. "You could say that again."
Lightning flashed again, closer this time. She turned toward the path. "Come on. Before this storm turns biblical."
They reached the house as the wind howled around them. Inside, the air was cold and still, thick with the scent of dust and aged oak. The foyer looked like time had stopped there years ago. His mother's favorite painting still hung above the staircase — a watercolor of the vineyard in summer, sunlight bleeding gold through the leaves.
Ethan's throat tightened.
Aria paused beside him. "You okay?"
He nodded, though he wasn't. "Just… a lot of memories."
She didn't press him. Instead, she crossed to the fireplace and knelt to light it, coaxing sparks to life with patient hands. Warmth began to bloom in the room.
When she turned back, her expression softened. "For what it's worth, your uncle spoke about you often."
Ethan's jaw tensed. "Did he?"
"Yes. Said you were brilliant but stubborn. That you ran off before you understood how much this place needed you."
He stared into the fire, bitterness coating his tongue. "Funny. He forgot to mention how he needed the vineyard's profits more than I did."
Aria frowned. "He did keep things close to the chest. But he also—"
"Lied," Ethan finished quietly. "He lied about a lot of things."
The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. Aria looked like she wanted to say more but thought better of it.
Finally, she said, "If you're staying, I'll have to rearrange a few things. The guest rooms haven't been used in months."
"I'll take my old room," Ethan said.
She nodded, heading toward the staircase. "I'll bring up some fresh linens."
As she climbed the stairs, he found his gaze drawn upward — not just to her, but to the strange familiarity that clung to her presence. There was something about her voice, her quiet determination, that stirred an echo he couldn't name.
When she disappeared down the hall, Ethan sank onto the couch and stared at the fire. Outside, thunder rolled again — a reminder that peace, like love, never lasted long in this town.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the old key the lawyer had given him — the key to his parents' study. The metal was worn smooth from years of use.
He hadn't stepped inside that room since the night they died.
And though the storm raged louder outside, he could swear he heard something else beneath it — a whisper, faint but certain, rising from the house itself.
Welcome home.