Afewweekspassed,but the weight of that night at Lotus Prime never did. Not for Claire. Not even close. The moment she saw that napkin—his handwriting, that name—it was like time split wide open. She hadn’t slept that night. Couldn’t. Her mind circled every missed chance like a vulture.
What if I had seen him?
What if I had just been there on time?
What if I had helped Sara at the event instead of making excuses?
The questions looped on repeat, each one cutting deeper than the last. She wanted answers, but more than that—she wanted a rewind button.
By morning, she couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m going back,” she said aloud, voice shaking but resolute. “After three years... I’m going back to the island.”
Sara, coffee in hand, nearly dropped her mug. “You what? Claire, I don’t think that’s smart. You don’t know where he’s at—mentally, emotionally, romantically. What about Travis?”
Claire didn’t flinch. “I’ll deal with Travis. I already put in my vacation time. Come with me?”
And like that, it was decided.
The sisters packed light, asked their parents to handle a few things while they were away, and hit the road. Six hours of open highway, tension thick in the car. They talked through every possible scenario. Every outcome. Every what-if.
But nothing could prepare Claire for the moment the "Oak Island" sign appeared off HWY-17. Her stomach dropped. Her chest caved. All the guilt she thought she’d buried came clawing back with sharp nails and a vengeance.
As they neared the island, Claire asked to drive through town before heading to the family beach house. She needed to see it—all of it. The streets hadn’t changed much. The buildings still stood like time had ignored them. The memories lingered in the cracks of sidewalks and the chime of the wind.
Then came the gut punch.
Sara pointed. “That’s different.”
Claire looked—and saw it. Jaxon’s old office, now an ice cream shop. Her heart skipped, then sank.
“He loved that place,” she whispered.
“Maybe he’s not here anymore?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else.
But then—around the next bend—his truck. Parked in front of a brand-new building. Sleek glass, a bold new sign: STONE.
He hadn’t left.
He’d leveled up.
Claire’s breath hitched. She looked through the glass, and there he was—propped against the arm of a chair, talking to his receptionist like nothing had changed.
Like he hadn’t been the ghost she carried every damn day since she left.
“Let’s just grab food and head to the house,” she muttered.
That night, showered and fed, Claire lay in bed wide awake. Tossing. Turning. Her thoughts were a noose, looping tighter with every twist of regret.
What if seeing him hurts more than not seeing him?
What if I ruin whatever peace he’s found?
What if it’s too late?
Her pillow soaked beneath her cheek as she wept silently, flipping it over to the dry side like she used to in college—back when heartbreak was dramatic, but not like this. Not with this kind of weight. Not with this kind of loss.
By morning, her eyes were puffy, swollen from crying herself to sleep.
Downstairs, Sara sat at the counter stool already dressed. “There’s nothing in the house. Let’s go find breakfast.”
