The salty tang of the ocean greeted Ava Carter as she stepped out of the taxi, her eyes squinting against the midday sun. Ashbourne hadn't changed in the three years she'd been gone. The narrow streets still twisted like an artist's uneven sketch, the pastel cottages leaning slightly under the weight of decades. A pang of familiarity tugged at her chest as she stood on the cobblestone road, staring at the boarded-up gallery that had once been her mother's pride.
She hesitated, clutching the worn leather strap of her bag. The gallery's sign, Carter & Co. Fine Arts, hung crooked, its once-vivid letters faded by sun and salt. The sight was like a wound reopened. Her mother, with her unyielding passion and radiant smile, had breathed life into that space. Ava had always been the quieter half of their duo—the shadow to her mother's vibrant light. And now, the gallery felt as lifeless as her mother's absence.
"Miss? You alright?" The taxi driver's voice jolted her from her thoughts. He leaned out of the window, his weathered face creased with concern.
Ava forced a nod and a tight smile. "Yeah, thank you."
With a final glance at the empty gallery, she dragged her suitcase toward the door of the small apartment above it. The stairs groaned under her weight, and she remembered how they'd done the same when she was a teenager, sneaking up after curfew. A bittersweet smile ghosted her lips.
The apartment was exactly as she'd left it: cramped and cluttered, a space that still carried her mother's touch. Dust motes swirled in the sunlight streaming through the window. Ava dropped her bag by the couch and sank into it, the ache of exhaustion setting in.
But rest was a luxury she couldn't afford. The gallery needed her. Or at least, that was what she told herself.
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Later That Evening
The ocean breeze rattled the window as Ava sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a box of her mother's belongings. Sketchbooks, dried-up paint tubes, and an old photo album lay scattered around her. She ran her fingers over a Polaroid of her younger self—barefoot and laughing beside her mother in front of the gallery. They'd been celebrating its grand opening.
A knock on the door interrupted her reverie. She frowned, setting the photo aside. Visitors were rare in Ashbourne, especially for her.
When she opened the door, a man stood there, silhouetted against the glow of the streetlamp. He looked to be around her age, with disheveled brown hair that fell into his eyes and a guitar case slung over his shoulder. A faint scent of cigarettes clung to him.
"Hey," he said, his voice carrying a rough warmth. "I'm, uh, sorry to bother you. My name's Ethan. I'm performing at the bar across the street, but I think I left my jacket here earlier when I stopped by...you know, for the gallery."
Ava blinked, thrown off by his sudden appearance. "The gallery isn't open," she said, her tone sharper than intended.
He laughed softly, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Right, noted. I didn't mean to—" He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. "Actually, I just saw the light on upstairs and figured I'd check. Didn't mean to interrupt...whatever this is."
Ava looked him over, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the faint hint of stubble. He didn't seem threatening, just out of place—like someone who didn't belong in this sleepy town.
"It's fine," she muttered. "I haven't seen a jacket, though."
Ethan shrugged, adjusting the guitar case on his shoulder. "Guess I'll keep looking. Sorry again." He turned to leave, then paused. "Hey, if you ever want to come by the bar, drinks are on me. Consider it a neighborly gesture."
Before she could respond, he was already halfway down the stairs, his footsteps echoing faintly. Ava closed the door and leaned against it, shaking her head. Neighborly gesture? She wasn't sure she had room in her life for neighbors—or gestures.
As she climbed back into bed, Ethan's face lingered in her mind, uninvited.