again-like it knew the town carried

ook." She hadn't touched a brush in eight months. But the quiet ache inside her was lo

oftly. The place smelled like dus

Mrs. Clara, the old woman who'd run the shop since forever. Her eyes

ted. "Yeah.

rcoal pencils-the kind her sister used to tease her ab

ed hard.

s, engine parts scattered at his feet. Working felt good. Mechanical. Logical.

e, eyeing him. "You

t look up

n't tal

t nee

ted. "Fai

he pier sometime. Locals go there after work. You mi

t the mention of forg

r the water, sketchbook open on her lap. She still hadn't drawn an

e wind lifted her dark curls just enough to brush acros

hind her. She didn't turn. Not until

st-tall, dark hair, broad shoulders, a shadow across his

at the water lik

Low. Rough like grav

always interrupt peo

y when they look like they're

sketchbook slow

ce. Not awkward

" he fina

le

etween them like s

ght," he

er smile. "If y

s eyes to the

stood there-strangers sharing a

between them that nig

e recognit

was enoug

contin