Then her parents were at the front of the line.
They'd waited. Stood in line behind strangers like regular customers, her father in the short-sleeve button-down he wore to every event that wasn't church, her mother clutching a copy of Tidal Lock against herchest like she was afraid someone would take it from her. Ida's eyes were already red — she'd been crying since at least halfway through the line, maybe longer.
"Mom. Dad. You didn't have to wait in line."
"Of course we did," Ida said, setting the book on the table with trembling hands. "We're here as fans. Make it out to your biggest fan — with an S, because there are two of us. Your father teared up on the plane, by the way. He'll deny it."
"Allergies," her father said. "The recycled air."
"He read it twice on the flight up. Twice, Clara."
Her father cleared his throat. Looked at the book on the table, then at Clara behind it, then at the line of people stretching behind them who'd come to have his daughter sign something she'd made. His jaw worked the way it did when he was trying not to show emotion, which he was terrible at and always had been.
"Your grandmother would've been proud," he said. Quiet. Like he was handing her something fragile.
Clara's pen stopped moving. She looked up at her father — this man who'd never quite understood what she did for a living but had never once told her to stop — and felt the last three years collapse into a single point. The kitchen floor. The lighthouse. The avatar and the pen name and the hiding. All of it leading here,to a table in a bookstore in her town, with a line of people and her parents waiting in it.
"Thank you, Dad," she said.
He nodded. Patted the table once — awkward, decisive, done with feelings now — and stepped aside so Ida could lean across and pull Clara into a hug that smelled like the jasmine perfume she'd worn since Clara was six.
"I'm so proud of you," Ida whispered. "I'm so, so proud of you."
"Mom. I'm going to cry."
"Then cry. I'll block the view."
She did, briefly. Ida blocked the view. Her father stood guard with his hands in his pockets, looking at the ceiling, pretending nothing emotional was happening. Lena, who'd been watching from behind the table, silently handed Clara a tissue and gave Ida a thumbs-up.
The line kept moving. Clara kept signing.
Jack stayed nearby. Not hovering — just present. Refilling her water glass. Bringing her a lobster roll she hadn't asked for but desperately needed. Talking to readers when Clara needed a moment to collect herself. Being the person he'd become over the past year — the man who stayed. Not perfectly. Notwithout the occasional morning where she could see the old fear flickering behind his eyes, the ghost of a packed bag. But he stayed anyway. Chose to be here, chose to be hers, every single morning.
The bonfire lit at dusk.
Same spot on the beach. Same crowd gathered in the firelight. Same Thomas, standing with the torch, voice carrying across the sand.
"Two hundred and thirteen years ago, a group of sailors shipwrecked on these shores..."
Clara leaned into Jack. His arm came around her — automatic now, the easy weight of a gesture that had become routine. Last year, this moment had been electric with newness. This year it was something better: familiar. The warmth of a body she knew as well as her own, the smell of sawdust and salt air, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
"...they built a fire. And that fire brought them together..."
Jack's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, grinned, and tilted the screen toward Clara.
A photo from Josie. Brody and his little sister on a couch, holding a copy of Tidal Lock betweenthem, the book open to a spread of Marina at the prow. Brody was pointing at the sea witch with an expression of delighted horror. The caption read:Brody wants to know if the sea witch is real. Sophie tried to eat the book. We're very proud of our aunt.
Aunt.
Clara pressed her face into Jack's shoulder so he wouldn't see her eyes.
"...to Beacon's End!" Thomas shouted, torch touching kindling, the fire roaring to life. "And to all the shipwrecked sailors who found their way home!"
"To Beacon's End!" the crowd echoed.
Jack pressed his mouth to Clara's hair. "To Beacon's End," he murmured, just for her.
She lifted her head. Looked at him in the firelight — this man who'd washed up on her shore like a founding myth, who'd almost left and almost stayed and almost broken both their hearts before choosing, finally, to stop running.
