The wind had changed again.
It blew colder now, curling off the water with an edge that whispered of summer's end, though the calendar still insisted there were weeks left. Clara sat on the weather-worn bench above the bluff, her knees tucked up to her chest, sketchpad resting on her thighs. She'd been drawing the same cliff for three days, trying to get it right—not just its shape, but its weight. Its presence.
She wasn't sure if she was succeeding. But it wasn't about perfection anymore. It was about showing up.
That morning, she'd woken from a dream she couldn't remember, with the feeling of someone calling her name. Not aloud—just a sense, soft and lingering, like memory warmed by sun. It stayed with her as she made coffee, as she walked the winding path to the cliffs, as she watched the waves roll in without rush or urgency.
There was no longer any need to hurry. Time, here, had softened.
But inside, something was stirring. A restlessness—but not the kind that demanded escape. This was gentler. A quiet nudge, asking her to consider where she would go next.
Clara glanced down at her drawing. It wasn't just cliffs anymore. Somewhere along the way, the sketch had evolved—her lines had curved into the form of a figure sitting at the edge, gazing toward the sea. It wasn't detailed, just a silhouette, but she knew who it was.
Her.
Still. Watching. Waiting.
Later that day, she wandered the market streets, stopping at a small bookstore tucked into a crooked building near the docks. The bell above the door jingled softly as she entered, the scent of paper and old wood rushing up to meet her.
She browsed aimlessly at first, fingers trailing over spines, her eyes catching on titles she didn't recognize. Then she found a section near the back—journals, sketchbooks, handmade paper bound in linen and leather. She picked one up, heavier than it looked, and flipped through the blank pages.
For some reason, it made her want to cry.
She bought it without thinking.
That evening, as the sun poured gold over the horizon, Clara sat by the window in her room, the new journal open in front of her. She didn't write a letter. Not yet. She just wrote thoughts, fragments.
> I miss Lena more than I want to admit.
I think I forgive her. But maybe it's not about her anymore. Maybe it's about me now.
I'm afraid that when I go back, I won't know who I am around them.
I'm afraid I'll forget this version of me.
But I'm starting to like her.
She paused, pressing her pen to the page. The wind rattled the windows slightly, and she closed her eyes, letting it settle in her chest.
The next day, Eli found her at the café again.
"You're leaving soon, aren't you?" he asked, not looking up from the worn guitar in his lap.
Clara stirred her tea. "How'd you guess?"
"You've got that look," he said. "The one people get when their roots start pulling in a different direction."
Clara gave a soft laugh. "Maybe. I don't know. I feel… better. Stronger. But it's hard to let go of this place."
"You don't have to let go," he said. "Just carry it with you."
She nodded, because she understood now—some places weren't meant to be left behind. They became a part of you. Like people. Like pain. Like healing.
That night, Clara finally pulled out the postcard she'd written for Lena weeks ago.
She didn't send it.
Instead, she sat down and began a letter. A real one. Five pages long.
She told Lena everything—about the dreams, about the cliffs, about the guilt that had turned into sadness and then into silence, and finally into something softer, almost like peace. She told her she was ready to come home—not because she had to, but because she wanted to. She told her that forgiveness didn't mean forgetting, and healing didn't mean going back.
But she also told her she missed her. Deeply. Quietly. Completely.
She sealed the letter and held it to her chest for a long moment before setting it on the desk.
The next morning, Clara stood at the bus stop with her sketchpad tucked under her arm, her duffel over her shoulder, and the wind at her back.
She didn't feel like she was leaving.
She felt like she was returning—changed, but whole.
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