Cal forgot how loud silence could be in a small town.
Especially at night, when the wind stopped tugging at the shutters and the sea held its breath. In the tiny guest room above the café—formerly the attic, judging by the slanted ceiling—he lay on his back, staring at the soft shadows of the rafters. The room smelled faintly of cinnamon, sea air, and old pine. Emery had left a folded towel on the bed, along with a glass of water and a small note:
"No locks. Just trust. Try not to break anything." —Em
He read it twice before tucking it under his pillow.
Outside the window, the lighthouse blinked its slow, steady rhythm. It hadn't changed. Pebblebay rarely did. The same briny smell, the same uneven cobblestones. Even the same chipped paint on the corner bakery sign. But Emery—she was different. Not hardened, not colder. Just... fuller. Like someone who had learned how to survive without waiting for someone to come back.
He wondered what she saw when she looked at him now. The boy who left, or the man who realized too late what he'd left behind?
Morning came gently, with fog trailing over the harbor like a secret. Cal padded downstairs barefoot, drawn by the scent of baking scones and freshly ground coffee. The café was already half-lit, cozy in that way that made you feel like the world outside could wait.
Emery was behind the counter, hair up in a loose knot, flour dusting her cheekbone like an afterthought.
"You sleep alright?" she asked, without looking up.
"Didn't expect to," he admitted, "but yeah. Your guest room's nicer than most hostels in Norway."
A tiny smile. "High praise."
He leaned on the counter. "You still make those lemon lavender scones?"
She tilted her head toward the cooling rack. "First batch's yours. One per apology."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's gonna take a few dozen."
"Good thing I bake in bulk."
For a moment, they stood in the hush of early café hours, the kind that belonged to the clink of cups and the low murmur of lives beginning their day. It felt like old times, but with more weight to it. Not heavy, just… earned.
"You ever regret not leaving?" Cal asked suddenly, eyes on the sea through the window.
Emery paused mid-pour. "I used to. When the letters stopped coming, I thought maybe I made the safe choice. That staying meant I'd missed something bigger."
"And now?"
She set the kettle down and looked at him. Really looked.
"Now I think I was just waiting for the story to come back to me."
Cal swallowed. "I was scared. I thought if I stayed, I'd stop becoming who I was meant to be."
"And who is that?" she asked, softly.
He let out a breath. "Still figuring that out. But every place I went, I kept finding pieces of you. In bookstore cafés, in old jazz songs, in every damn lighthouse I pointed my camera at."
Emery didn't respond for a long time. Instead, she slid a scone across the counter. Steam curled off the top like a whisper.
"Then maybe," she said gently, "you weren't running away. Maybe you were just trying to understand where you came from."
He met her eyes. There was no anger in them. Just a deep, worn-in sadness—like the kind that comes from having loved someone quietly for a very long time.
"I still love you, Em," Cal said, the words leaving him before he had time to brace.
She didn't flinch. Just nodded, slowly.
"I know," she said. "But love isn't always enough."
Silence again. Not cold this time—just honest.
He picked up the scone, tore off a piece, and chewed slowly.
"These are even better than I remembered."
"Of course they are," Emery said, turning back to the oven. "I stayed."
Later that day, they planted the lavender out front together. Side by side in the dirt, hands messy, knees muddy, sleeves rolled. Cal caught her humming under her breath—an old tune from a mixtape he made her in high school. She didn't mention it, but she didn't stop either.
They didn't speak much while they worked, but something softened in the silence between them. Forgiveness was never a single moment. It was something built, like flowerbeds or trust—slow, deliberate, and done with your hands in the dirt.
As the sun dipped low again, and the lighthouse blinked its first beam across the water, Emery handed him a glass of lemonade.
"You're staying the week, right?" she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Yeah," he said, sipping. "If you'll have me."
She shrugged, but her smile betrayed her.
"One week. No promises."
"Right," he nodded. "No promises."
But in his chest, something bloomed anyway.