Emily followed her out the side door and into a courtyard that stopped her in her tracks.
Six cottages sat in a gentle semicircle around a garden wild with coastal plants she couldn’t name. Spiky things and trailing things and something with small purple flowers that had gone leggy in the salt air. Fairy lights strung between posts cast a warm glow against the gathering dusk. Stone paths connected everything. A fire pit centered the space, surrounded by mismatched chairs. Adirondack, wicker, and one that looked like it might have been rescued from a shipwreck. A gazebo sat at one edge, its archway leading to a path that disappeared toward the sound of waves.
Emily stood there, her suitcase hanging from her hand.
“Each cottage has its own personality.” Pride crept into Winnie’s voice as they crossed the courtyard. “Starfish is there on the end. Heron Cottage next to it. That one’s empty right now. Then Captain’s Watch, Sea Glass, Compass Rose, and Driftwood Cottage.”
She pointed to each in turn, her hand steady despite her age. When she indicated the last cottage, her hand lingered slightly longer. Her voice went quieter.
“My nephew Clint lives there. He maintains the property and keeps an eye on things.”
Emily filed that away. The pause. The careful word choice. The way Winnie’s shoulders pulled back when she mentioned her nephew. There were stories here, she could tell. Stories nobody talked about openly.
She was becoming an expert at recognizing that kind of silence. She lived inside one herself.
“The other residents keep various hours,” Winnie continued, resuming her walk. “Melissa in Captain’s Watch is a photographer. Tends to prowl around at odd times. Early mornings, late nights. You might see her with her camera when you least expect it.”
They reached Starfish Cottage. The paint was a soft blue-gray that had weathered into something between sky and sea. Not shabby, but worn smooth, like a stone tumbled by waves until all its sharp edges were gone.
Winnie produced an old-fashioned key, the kind Emily hadn’t seen in years. Heavy iron, oxidized to a greenish patina. It slid into the lock with a solid click.
The door opened to reveal a space that somehow felt immediately like somewhere she could hide and somewhere that might ask too much of her, both at the same time.
The main room combined living and kitchen areas, furnished simply but comfortably. A faded floral sofa faced windows that looked out toward the lighthouse. A kitchen table sat in the corner where morning light would fall across it. Everything looked gently worn. Not run-down but lived-in. The kind of worn that came from decades of people actually using things instead of just looking at them.
Emily set her suitcase down. Her eyes went immediately to the doorway on the right. The one Winnie hadn’t mentioned yet.
“Bedroom and bath through there.” Winnie pointed to the left. “Studio’s to the right, though you can use it for whatever you like.” She paused. “Storage, maybe. Like you said.”
Storage. She almost laughed out loud. Before everything that had happened, she couldn’t imagine giving up a studio space for storage. But now? It sounded like a practical suggestion.
“The lighthouse has been in my family for generations.” Winnie moved to the window, gazing out at the structure now beginning to glow against the darkening sky. “It’s seen a lot of changes and weathered a lot of storms. Hurricane seasons that stripped the paint right off. But it kept standing. Kept doing what it was built to do.”
Winnie turned back to her, those sharp eyes seeming to see straight through to everything Emily wasn’t saying. “People tend to sort themselves out here. When they’re ready.”
Emily’s jaw ached. She unclenched it deliberately. “I’m just here to rest.”
“Of course.” Winnie moved toward the door. “There’s a community get-together on Fridays if you’re inclined. Fire pit in the courtyard. Nothing fancy. Not required. Nothing’s required here except respect for the property and each other.”
She paused at the threshold, her hand resting on the frame.
“Oh, and Emily? The lighthouse beam still operates. Automated now, of course. No one needs to climb those stairs anymore. But it’ll sweep past your windows every forty-five seconds once full dark falls.” She glanced back. “Some find it comforting. Others need blackout curtains. There’s a set in the bedroom closet if you need them.”
Then she was gone. The door closed softly behind her.
Emily stood alone in the cottage. She counted her breaths. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The therapist she’d seen exactly three times had taught her that. Before she’d stopped going. Before she’d stopped being able to afford it.
She tossed her jacket toward a chair. Missed. It slid to the floor, and she left it there.
The window drew her. She crossed to it and looked out at the lighthouse, its white tower now glowing faintly against a sky that had deepened to purple. Somewhere, a bird called out, sharp and mournful.
She should unpack. Get settled. Make the cottage feel less like a hiding place and more like something else. The word home felt foreign. She hadn’t had a home in months. She’d had places she slept, places she stored her things, places she existed. But home? She wasn’t sure she knew what that meant anymore.
Her suitcase sat on the bed in the bedroom. The zipper fought her until she finally yanked it open hard enough to break one of the teeth.
She stared at the contents. Clothes grabbed without thinking, whatever had been closest. A sweater she hated. Three shirts she hadn’t worn in years. One pair of pants that actually fit. She hung a few items in the closet and dumped the rest in the dresser. Good enough.
Toiletries in the bathroom. The medicine cabinet mirror showed her a face she barely recognized. Pale, drawn, older than it had the right to look. She shut the cabinet door without studying herself further.
