The coastal town was small, nestled between cliffs and sea, the kind of place where time slowed and no one asked too many questions. Clara had arrived just after dusk, stepping off the bus with her sketchpad tucked under her arm and a duffel slung across her shoulder. The salty air hit her like a quiet welcome.
She stayed in a tiny guesthouse run by an older woman named Margo, who wore thick glasses and always smelled like cinnamon. The room was simple—white sheets, a window that looked out at the ocean, and a desk by the corner where Clara had already placed her journal and pencils.
That first night, she didn't sleep. She lay with the window cracked open, listening to the waves crash in steady rhythm, and thought about everything that had brought her here. The anger, the sadness, the aching confusion—it had all dulled now, but it still lived inside her, like shadows stretched long by fading light.
But there was also something else now.
Curiosity.
The next morning, she wandered through the town, sketching storefronts and strangers from afar. She found a path that led up a bluff overlooking the sea, and sat there for hours, drawing the cliffs, the tide, the faint outline of boats far in the distance. Her lines weren't perfect, but they were honest. Raw. Alive.
One afternoon, she sat in a café tucked between a bookstore and a row of shuttered cottages. She pulled out a postcard and began to write to Lena.
> Hey,
I'm okay. I've been walking a lot. Drawing, too. I think I'm starting to understand things better—not just what happened, but who I am beyond it. I don't feel angry anymore. Not really. Just… aware. Of how far we've come.
I miss you. Hope you're still watching old movies without me.
Tell Jace not to burn dinner.
Love you.
Clara
She tucked the postcard into her sketchpad to send later. For now, it felt enough just to write it.
Over the next week, she spoke more with Margo, who had stories of her own—about her late husband, about the years she'd spent building a life here after leaving everything behind. "People think starting over means forgetting," Margo had said one night over tea. "But it doesn't. It just means carrying things differently."
Clara had nodded, knowing exactly what she meant.
One evening, as the sun dipped low over the horizon, Clara stood barefoot at the edge of the water, letting the waves lick her toes. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, letting herself feel small under the vast, open sky—and, for the first time, she didn't feel lost in it.
She felt held.
The wind tugged at her clothes, her hair, like an old friend nudging her forward.
Maybe this was what becoming meant—not sudden clarity, but quiet revelations, one breath at a time.
She smiled to herself and turned back toward the lights of town, her shadow stretching long and steady behind her.
Tomorrow, she'd write again.
Tomorrow, she'd draw the sea.
Tomorrow, she'd keep going.
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