We step off the road and onto the first cobblestone stretch leading toward Main Street. People glance at us—at me—long enough to make it obvious.
And for once?
I don’t shrink.
I don’t look away.
I don’t apologize for existing.
I lift my chin and walk like I own the place.
Like I’m someone who survived something ugly and came out sharper.
The fringe on my jacket sways with every step.
My boots click with purpose.
Mason walks beside me, quiet for once.
“You know,” he finally says, “you look like someone who’s about to change her whole life.”
“I am,” I answer.
Chatham’s Main Street looks like a postcard.
Holiday lights already strung up.
Window displays full of seashell ornaments and overpriced scarves.
Tourists wandering with paper cups of cider.
I don’t know what I’m looking for.
Just… something that feels like mine.
Mason walks beside me without talking, which I appreciate. For a guy who clearly likes attention, he’s surprisingly good at shutting up when it matters.
A tiny trinket shop catches my eye—painted a dusty blue with little brass bells on the door. The window is cluttered with crystals, handmade soaps, locally printed tote bags, and shiny notebooks.
I push the door open. The bells jingle overhead.
It smells like sandalwood and warm vanilla.
I wander toward the back, past shelves of sea-glass earrings and candle jars shaped like lighthouses.
Then I see it.
A leather-bound journal—deep brown, almost black—stitched by hand, the cover embossed with a delicate vine design. Thick pages. The kind of journal someone writes an entire new life into.
Next to it, a gold pen with a tiny crown on top.
My lips twitch.
A crown.
Of course.
Mason steps beside me, eyebrow raised. “You journaling now?”
