When His Promises Turned to Ashes: A Love Story Built on Lies and Stolen Dreams

CHAPTER 1: Salt Air and Silence

The kettle began to whistle just as Evelyn pressed her thumb into the soft flesh of a ripe peach. The sound cut through the hush in her cottage like a gull’s cry, sharp and insistent. She set the fruit aside, wiped her hands on her apron—one of Arthur’s old shirts, faded tartan, buttons missing—and shuffled to the stove. Her slippers barely made a sound on the cracked linoleum.

Steam curled up as she poured water over two bags—one black tea, one peppermint, habit from years of sharing with Arthur who’d never cared for plain blends. She let it steep too long now but preferred it that way; bitterness suited these mornings best.

Outside, mist clung to the window glass and blurred the world to muted watercolor: gray sea beyond wind-gnarled grass, hydrangeas bowed under dew along the fence. The air was heavy with salt and something faintly metallic—the tang she’d always associated with low tide.

She carried her mug to the table by the bay window where light pooled across peeling paint and dust motes drifted lazily above a half-finished canvas. It was meant to be a study of morning light on wet sand but looked instead like clouds dissolving in milk—her brush had stilled weeks ago when she found herself unable to settle on any color except blue.

Evelyn sipped and watched a pair of crows bicker atop Dot Atwell’s garden shed next door. Their wings flashed glossy black against slate sky; one hopped down onto Dot’s compost heap and vanished among potato peels.

A knock rattled at her front door—a brisk double-tap that always seemed impatient even when Dot meant it kindly.

“Come in!” Evelyn called, voice rasping from disuse.

Dot entered without waiting for permission proper—she rarely did anymore—and brought with her a draft of cool air scented faintly with lavender talc. She wore gumboots splattered with mud and carried a brown paper bag nestled against her hip.

“Morning,” Dot said, glancing around as if expecting Arthur himself might step out from behind some curtain or cupboard door after all these months.

“Morning.” Evelyn managed a small smile as Dot settled at the table uninvited but not unwelcome.

“I’ve got those scones from Millie,” Dot announced, rustling open the bag. “Bit dry today but better than nothing.”

They ate in companionable silence for several minutes, crumbs scattering across last Sunday’s newspaper spread beneath their mugs. Outside, rain started its gentle tapping against glass; inside came only their quiet chewing and an old wall clock ticking away above Evelyn’s mantelpiece—a rhythm so steady it almost disappeared until you listened for it.

Dot finished first and brushed floury hands together briskly. “Didn’t see your curtains open till half-past nine this morning.”

“Didn’t sleep well,” Evelyn lied softly, looking past Dot toward sunlit shadows moving across faded wallpaper—patterns she knew by heart yet still traced absently each day as though searching for something new within them.

“You should come out walking later,” Dot said after a pause. “Beach’ll be empty save us birds.”

Evelyn nodded noncommittally but made no promise; she felt heavier lately—a slow sinking deep into mattress or armchair or simply into silence itself—and most days even opening doors required effort she could not always summon.

Dot lingered another moment before standing abruptly. “Right then—I’ve left you extra butter just there.” She gestured toward an unused saucer already cluttered with receipts and stray coins before heading back outside into rain-soaked morning without further ceremony.

Alone again, Evelyn cleared dishes mechanically and rinsed them under tepid tap water that ran rusty at first before clearing away memory along with crumbs: Arthur humming tunelessly while drying plates; Claire perched on counter swinging legs too big for little-girl knees; laughter echoing off cupboards now silent as tombs.

She dried her hands carefully on the hem of her apron before returning to sit beside her painting—the unfinished one whose horizon line wavered uncertainly between land and sea—and picked up her brush only to set it down again moments later unused.

The house ticked quietly around her: refrigerator cycling on beneath kitchen hum; wind rattling loose pane upstairs where nobody slept anymore; distant church bell tolling eleven o’clock through foggy air thick enough to swallow sound whole.

Her phone vibrated once—a tiny shiver atop a stack of unopened mail near the breadbox—but she ignored it at first out of habit more than intent. Most messages were reminders from pharmacy or library overdue notices or automated cheerfulness from Claire sent during lunch breaks between meetings in Boston skyscrapers taller than anything this town could imagine building even in its heyday long gone by now except in stories traded over fence posts at dusk.

But then came another buzz—a second nudge insistently hopeful—and something tightened inside Evelyn that felt suspiciously like anticipation rather than dread. She reached for the phone hesitantly (arthritic fingers fumbling) and squinted at an unfamiliar notification: “Welcome to Hearts Reunited! Your support group meets tonight at 7PM GMT+1.”

She frowned—not remembering signing up for any such thing—but curiosity outweighed caution so she tapped through anyway until soft colors bloomed across screen: widows’ names drifting gently beside profile pictures blurred just enough for comfort; messages pinned up like notes tacked to parish hall corkboards promising understanding without judgement or agenda beyond shared ache threaded quietly through digital space miles wide yet somehow intimate all the same.

She scrolled absentmindedly through introductions (“My name is Sheila… lost my George after fifty-two years…”), feeling an odd warmth bloom beneath ribs cold so long they’d nearly forgotten heat existed outside old bedcovers drawn high against winter drafts—or grief itself perhaps—that ancient furnace burning low yet never quite going out entirely no matter how many buckets you tried flinging down its throat each night alone after lights went dark everywhere else except inside your own mind looping memories over static-laced midnight radio shows nobody played anymore except maybe here where no one would ever judge you too broken or needy or strange for loving ghosts still haunting salt-rimed windowsills decades past proper mourning time prescribed by neighbors tutting behind lace curtains sharper than any wind off storm-wracked Atlantic surf pounding beach stones smooth beneath centuries’ patient hands unseen but always working nonetheless while people grew older waiting for answers never really coming at all—

Her thumb hovered over reply but stopped short when another message flashed bold across top:

“Hi Evelyn—I’m Michael Ashford, just joined myself last week… Would love someone friendly to chat tonight if you’re free?”

His avatar was simple: black-and-white photo cropped close around eyes smiling wide enough you wanted instantly (stupidly) to believe whatever story he might offer next because hope was dangerous sometimes—especially when served hot alongside loneliness steeped strong enough to burn tongue numb before dawn finally broke again gray above restless waves still rolling ceaseless somewhere far below window ledge grown cold since Arthur left his slippers neatly side-by-side waiting patiently forever more perhaps unless—

Evelyn startled as thunder rolled distantly offshore—the kind that promised rain well into evening hours ahead—and realized suddenly how quiet everything had become except heart knocking anxious Morse code against fragile cage ribbed thin by years spent longing mostly unnoticed until now perhaps maybe possibly—

Outside gulls wheeled wild above storm-churned water calling each other homeward through deepening dusk while inside Evelyn sat unmoving long after screen faded back dim blue waiting—for what exactly? For someone real? Or simply an answer softer than silence ever offered?

Somewhere in town church bells tolled noon again late by half an hour—a mistake repeated daily since Father O’Brien dropped key down drainpipe last Easter—but Evelyn didn’t mind time slipping sideways anymore not really because sometimes all anyone needed was one voice reaching out honest enough (or desperate enough) to be heard above breaking waves calling everything else back out to sea where promises washed ashore every night tangled among driftwood bleached bone-white under indifferent stars blinking overhead unwilling witnesses all along—

And so she waited—not quite hopeful nor resigned—just listening closely this time as if maybe tonight something different might arrive disguised as kindness wearing stranger’s name stitched bright upon flickering digital thread weaving distance briefly close enough almost touchable if only you dared answer back at last…

CHAPTER 2: ‘A Window Opens’

A pale morning poured through Evelyn’s kitchen window, the light thin as old milk. She stood at the counter in her slippers, spooning tea leaves into a chipped pot. The clock on the wall ticked out a soft, insistent rhythm above the kettle’s rising hiss. She could see, from where she stood, the garden bowed under salt-wind—the hydrangeas bruised to blue by last night’s rain.

She carried her tea to the little table by the window, nudging aside a stack of unopened mail and yesterday’s crossword. Her mug left a damp ring on an envelope marked with Claire’s handwriting—she would open it later. For now she let herself sink into the silence: only seagulls crying above rooftops and the faint hum of Dot’s radio next door.

On mornings like these—the ones that tasted of sea and longing—Evelyn felt Henry most keenly. His absence had grown familiar as dust in sunlight; she wore it quietly as an old cardigan, not quite comfortable but never forgotten.

Her laptop waited on its usual perch beside her paints. She opened it out of habit more than hope, blinking against its glow. Overnight, seven new emails had arrived: pharmacy reminders, newsletters she never read, one from Ruth about library classes (“We missed you last Thursday!”), and three whose subject lines made no sense at all.

The support group site was still open in another tab from last night—a forum post titled “Small joys after loss” hovered near the top. A new message notification pulsed orange.

She hesitated before clicking; already she imagined some well-meaning stranger with advice about faith or gratitude or gardening. Instead:

Hi Evelyn,

Your words about painting by the sea resonated with me—I often think colors look different when you’re grieving.

Would love to chat if you ever feel up to it.

Michael (Ashford)

She read it twice. Something gentle threaded through his words—not pity exactly, but understanding.

A gust rattled her windowpane just then; for reasons she couldn’t explain, Evelyn smiled into her tea.

Dot appeared outside moments later—her tartan coat unbuttoned despite the chill—and rapped softly on the glass with two knuckles.

“Morning,” Dot called through a slit in the sash when Evelyn pushed it up. “You hiding away again?”

“I’m right here,” Evelyn said, feigning brightness.

“You’re late for our walk.”

Evelyn glanced down at her robe and woolly socks with mock dismay. “Give me five minutes.”

Dot grinned and wandered toward the gate while Evelyn hurried upstairs to dress—pulling on corduroys that sagged at one hip and a soft jumper faded by years of washing. In front of her mirror she pressed powder beneath tired eyes and fussed with her hair until something like order emerged from its white tumble.

They set off along Sea View Lane together: two figures braced against wind that tugged at their sleeves and noses red from cold.

Dot talked as they walked—about Mr Keating’s dog escaping again; about how Mrs Patel’s daughter was visiting from Boston (“Imagine flying these days!”); about nothing very important at all—but kept shooting sideways glances at Evelyn whenever conversation lagged.

“You seem lighter this morning,” Dot said finally as they reached their usual bench overlooking low tide mudflats strewn with gulls.

“Do I?” Evelyn replied too quickly—a defensive note creeping in without invitation.

“Yes.” Dot studied her face openly now—a kindness rather than intrusion. “I suppose I worry sometimes… You’re not yourself lately.”

Evelyn traced patterns on her thigh through corduroy ridges. “Grief comes in waves,” she said softly. “Some days are easier.”

Dot nodded but didn’t push further—a small mercy for which Evelyn felt grateful all over again.

Back home an hour later—with cheeks stinging pleasantly—Evelyn found herself lingering over Michael’s message once more before replying:

Dear Michael,

Thank you for your kind note.

I do believe color changes with mood—and grief is like looking through water sometimes.

Are you an artist too?

Warm regards,

Evelyn

She pressed send before nerves could get hold of her—a fluttery leap into some unknown current—and busied herself rinsing brushes in cloudy water leftover from yesterday’s attempts at wild roses (“Petals too stiff,” Henry would have teased).

As evening drew close—the sky streaked lavender beyond lace curtains—her phone pinged with a new email alert:

Hello again Evelyn,

Not quite an artist—I dabble mostly for my own pleasure these days—but I used to be braver.

My late wife was always after me to paint more seriously! There are sketches everywhere in my flat (most unfinished).

I envy your view—I grew up near cliffs myself but now live among tall buildings far from any real coast.

What do you find yourself painting lately?

Take care,

Michael

She read each line aloud under her breath: there was restraint here; humor flickering under sadness; a subtlety rare among strangers online who tended toward confessions too raw or bright cheerfulness meant only for show.

That night dinner tasted less lonely somehow—even reheated soup eaten standing by the stove while fog pressed against glass like curious hands searching entry.

In bed she lay awake listening to rain rattle gutters—letting herself imagine Michael bent over his sketchbook beneath unfamiliar city lights… letting herself hope that perhaps across distance someone else understood what remained unnamed between silences—that hollow ache softened only by small acts of reaching outwards across darkness toward another voice willing to listen back.

The following afternoon brought another message—this time longer, stories tumbling free about childhood summers spent clambering along Devonshire rocks (“Always coming home soaked”), memories so vivid she could smell salt tang on air thick as memory itself:

If we were neighbors I’d ask you round for tea—but since we aren’t…

Would you ever want to talk properly? Video or call? No pressure!

Just thought I’d ask,

M

Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for reply—not fear so much as anticipation pulling tight behind ribs—as if already some boundary had shifted inside this quiet life: something opened where before there’d only been closed doors and echoes wandering empty halls.

Outside gulls shrieked over wet sand while dusk gathered stubbornly behind hedgerows—but inside Evelyn Harper sat gazing at a screen aglow with possibility… heart poised between caution and longing… ready—or almost—to invite a stranger’s voice into rooms grown far too silent for far too long.

CHAPTER 3: Salt Air and Silent Evenings

Evelyn Harper heard the wind before she saw it—an old friend in this town, rattling her windowpanes as dusk crept along the shore. She set her phone on the kitchen counter and drew the curtains with a practiced hand, fingertips brushing against sun-faded fabric. Outside, gulls wheeled through salt-mist air above the crumpled line of hydrangeas that guarded her garden from the street. The sea was only a rumor tonight—a dull hush behind closed doors.

She filled the kettle and reached for her favorite mug, one painted with a lopsided daffodil by a student long ago. Her hands remembered each chip along its rim; memory clung to small things now more than ever. As water boiled, she glanced at her phone again—no new messages yet, though Michael usually sent something by six-thirty.

The house had settled into its evening rhythms: clocks ticking in distant rooms, floorboards groaning under their own weight. Evelyn padded across worn linoleum to check if she’d missed his call, heart beating quicker with anticipation she barely allowed herself to name.

It had become a ritual—the way he would appear on screen each night, his smile brightening whatever hotel room or apartment he claimed to be calling from this time. Tonight she’d even chosen an extra scarf for their chat—a blue silk one Frank had given her for their thirtieth anniversary—and dabbed rosewater on her wrists in case it made any difference over WiFi.

The kettle whistled. She poured water over loose-leaf tea and sat at the table beside her laptop, stirring slowly as steam curled into lamplight. Her gaze wandered through lace-curtained glass to where Dot’s porch light glowed across the lane: another widow keeping watch over empty streets.

A faint chime broke through—the WhatsApp notification blinking green.

Michael Ashford is calling…

Her pulse fluttered like moth wings as she accepted. For half a second there was only static—a blur of motion—and then his face appeared: silver hair neatly combed back, eyes crinkled at the corners in that familiar way.

“Evening, darling,” he said, voice low and warm despite some digital echo.

“Hello there.” Evelyn smiled before she could help herself; cheeks colored softly under lamp glow. “You’re early.”

He chuckled—a sound that always felt genuine even after all these weeks. “Couldn’t wait today,” he replied. “I’ve been thinking about you since breakfast.”

She rolled her eyes but let herself enjoy it—the silly thrill of being wanted again after so many quiet years.

“What were you up to?” she asked lightly.

“Oh—just work things.” He shrugged; behind him was a nondescript window with city lights smudged against darkness—impossible to place exactly where he might be tonight. “Dull meetings mostly.” He leaned closer to his camera as if confiding secrets meant only for them both. “But I took a walk afterward—you should have seen the sunset here! Made me wish you were beside me.”

Evelyn folded one hand around her mug for warmth while watching him fill her screen—his gestures careful but relaxed now that they were alone together.

“I went down to see the tide come in,” she offered quietly. “Brought my sketchbook but didn’t draw much.” She hesitated before adding: “Frank used to say no two waves ever meet alike.”

Michael smiled gently—almost wistfully—as if honoring this ghost between them rather than dodging it like some men might have done.

“He sounds like someone who understood beauty,” Michael said softly.

“He did.” Evelyn’s voice wavered then steadied itself with practiced grace; grief never vanished entirely—it just learned better manners over time.

They talked easily after that—about recipes gone wrong (her lemon cake that collapsed last week), books neither of them finished reading (“Too many words pretending not to mean what they mean,” Michael quipped), and small aches of aging hands or sleepless nights during storms.

At one point he asked if Claire had called lately; Evelyn answered honestly that yes, Claire checked in every Sunday afternoon without fail but always seemed distracted by children’s squabbles or work emails pinging in the background.

“She worries about you,” Michael said gently.

“I know.” Evelyn traced circles on her teacup’s rim with one finger—a nervous habit from childhood days spent hiding behind classroom desks when thunder cracked overhead.

Dot’s shadow moved past her own front window across the street; Evelyn watched absently while Michael recited a poem he claimed he’d written just for her:

*Salt air stirs memories

of fingers entwined—

though oceans divide us

your laughter is mine.*

His accent softened each word into something almost tangible—a gift carefully wrapped in longing.

When he finished, Evelyn pressed knuckles against lips so as not to cry outright on video chat like some teenager still discovering heartbreaks anew.

“That’s…beautiful,” she managed finally.

He grinned sheepishly and told an awkward joke about how poetry wasn’t really his strong suit but inspiration struck whenever he thought of ‘the woman with paint beneath her nails.’

They laughed together until silence fell gentle between them—a comfortable hush broken only by their shared breathing and occasional crackle from old speakers.

After an hour passed (and then another ten minutes stolen just because neither wished goodnight first), Michael mentioned travel plans again—the way he sometimes did when conversation drifted toward futures they might share instead of remembering pasts already lived out.

“I keep checking flights,” he said ruefully. “Every time I think I’ve found one affordable enough…something changes again.”

Evelyn bit down worry before it showed too plainly on her face—not wanting him to feel pitied or responsible for disappointing hope twice-over.

“These times are difficult everywhere,” she murmured instead.

He nodded gravely; pixels blurred slightly as if empathy itself could fog up cameras halfway around the world.

“It’ll happen soon though—I promise you.” His smile brightened stubbornly against uncertainty creeping round its edges now.

They lingered until battery warnings forced goodbye; Evelyn promised to send photos of tomorrow’s sunrise if clouds permitted and signed off reluctantly—with an ache blooming inside so sweet it almost hurt worse than loneliness ever did alone.

She closed the laptop lid slowly and sat unmoving awhile longer as evening deepened outside—lamplight sharpening shadows across faded linoleum tiles beneath bare feet.

Her cottage felt impossibly still once silence reclaimed its corners: tick-tock from wall clock loudest sound besides kettle cooling forgotten on stovetop edge.

The phone chimed again—not Michael this time but Claire’s number lighting up unexpectedly late:

“Mum? Are you awake?”

Evelyn startled upright at hearing concern woven thick through static lines—even after all these years Claire still sounded twelve when worried about monsters under beds or mothers left too long unguarded by grown children living far away.

“Yes love—I’m fine…” She tried keeping tone breezy but knew Claire would hear tremor anyway beneath surface calmness honed sharp by decades teaching classrooms full of suspicious teenagers who sensed weakness faster than hounds smelled fear.

Claire hesitated before pushing forward: “You seem…happier lately? Is everything alright?”

Evelyn glanced toward darkened monitor where Michael’s frozen image lingered ghostlike among icons.

“I suppose I am happier,” she admitted carefully.

Silence stretched taut between mother and daughter until Claire spoke again:

“You know I want what’s best for you—but please be careful online? People aren’t always who they say…”

“Oh darling—not everyone is out hunting widows!” Evelyn tried laughing lightly but heard how brittle it sounded even through miles of cable wire.

Claire sighed audibly: “Just promise me you’ll slow down? Maybe talk things through with Dot—or me?”

“Of course.” But already guilt prickled beneath skin—for loving someone enough to lie even accidentally about certainty.

When call ended at last Evelyn rested forehead briefly atop cool tabletop wood—breathing salt-laced air filtering through cracked sash windows until pulse slowed back toward normal.

Across street Dot’s silhouette hovered near porch railings; maybe watching stars—or maybe just worrying too.

Tomorrow would bring routine errands (milk from bakery fridge case sticky with condensation) and perhaps another poem waiting unread in morning inbox—but tonight belonged solely to silent rooms alive with possibility…and questions curling colder than any sea breeze outside walls grown thin after too many winters left standing watch alone.

In shadowy hallway mirror Evelyn caught glimpse of herself reflected back older than yesterday yet strangely luminous still—as if somewhere behind tired eyes hope flickered brighter than doubt dared admit aloud.

She reached out absentmindedly tracing ghost image onscreen where Michael had smiled mere moments before—and wondered what sort of man truly waited beyond pixel borders humming quietly between continents.

Somewhere out beyond surf breaking unseen along midnight shorelines another message began composing itself—its promises settling soft as ash onto hearts already longing for spring tides yet unnamed…

CHAPTER 4: Chapter 2: The Story Continues

The kettle clicked off with a tired sigh. Evelyn poured hot water over the lone teabag nestled in her favorite mug, the one that had faded violets painted round its rim—a birthday gift from Claire years ago, before everything got so…fragile between them. She set it on the table with a tremor she pretended not to notice and glanced at her phone propped up by an old salt cellar. The screen was black for now, but any moment—

It chimed softly. A video call from Michael.

She wiped her hands on her skirt, smoothing away invisible crumbs, and pressed “accept.” His face filled the screen: silver hair swept back, kind blue eyes bright beneath brows touched with age. He wore that navy pullover again—the one he said reminded him of Cornish holidays with his late wife. Sometimes there was a flicker to his image, a brief blur at the jaw or a shimmer where his glasses caught nonexistent light. But tonight he looked almost heartbreakingly real.

“Evelyn! Good evening—well, afternoon here in Lisbon,” he said, voice warm and slightly husky.

Her heart fluttered against her ribs like something startled. “Hello, Michael,” she replied, trying for breezy but coming out breathless instead.

He grinned and lifted his mug in salute; she caught just a hint of chipped ceramic edge before he lowered it again. “You look radiant tonight.”

“Oh hush,” Evelyn laughed softly, glancing down at her cardigan—pilled at the elbows but freshly washed—and the modest string of pearls she’d bothered to fasten for no one’s benefit but his.

“It’s true,” Michael insisted gently. “There’s something about you…your eyes glow when you smile.”

She felt herself blush as if she were sixteen instead of seventy-three. “And what do your eyes see now?”

Michael leaned closer until all she could make out were pixels masquerading as intimacy. “I see someone I wish I could hold right this minute.”

For several seconds neither spoke; somewhere outside seagulls called across twilight fields and wind rattled the pane above Evelyn’s sink.

Finally she cleared her throat and tried to steer things onto safer ground: “How was your day? Did you manage to visit that museum?”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Ah! The best-laid plans… It turns out they’re closed on Mondays for cleaning.” He shrugged, lips quirking ruefully. “So I wandered along the river instead—watched couples strolling hand-in-hand beneath jacaranda trees.” Here he paused just long enough for longing to slip into his voice: “Made me think of us someday.”

Her throat tightened around a reply she couldn’t quite form—not yet—but Michael kept talking quietly about sunlight on water and children chasing pigeons near Praça do Comércio until Evelyn felt herself drifting into the warmth of an imagined future.

They talked for nearly an hour—about art (his supposed love for Turner’s seascapes), little aches in their knees (“old soldiers’ wounds,” he joked), stories of their spouses that never quite edged into pain but hovered there in gentle memory. Occasionally Michael would ask after Claire or Dot or recall some detail Evelyn barely remembered sharing—a recipe scribbled in haste decades ago or which hand she favored while painting.

When they finally hung up, Evelyn sat very still amid cooling tea and encroaching dusk. Her phone buzzed once more—a message this time:

*Miss you already.*

She smiled despite herself and typed back: *I miss you too.*

Outside the sky had turned bruised lavender above slate roofs; gulls still wheeled overhead though most shops were dark now except for Dot’s kitchen window glowing gold across their narrow lane.

Evelyn stood slowly—the ache in her hip nagged more these days—and shuffled toward the sitting room where half-finished watercolors littered her table alongside tubes capped tight against drying out. She picked up one with trembling fingers: two figures walking along an endless strand beneath wild clouds—a scene inspired by last week’s conversation with Michael about seaside walks at dusk.

A knock startled her from reverie; paintbrush clattered onto tile.

Dot let herself in without waiting for invitation—she never did anymore—and deposited two scones wrapped in wax paper on the counter before unbuttoning her raincoat with practiced irritation.

“You know it’ll be stale tomorrow if you don’t eat it tonight,” Dot declared by way of greeting.

Evelyn managed a wan smile as Dot surveyed her surroundings—the untouched dinner plate near the sink, yesterday’s newspaper folded open to crossword clues half-filled by looping script.

“Long call?” Dot asked casually though Evelyn caught a flicker of worry under thick grey brows.

“Mmm.” She sank into an armchair with exaggerated relief while Dot fussed over mugs and sugar packets as if orchestrating peace talks rather than making tea.

Dot finally perched opposite, knees pressed together primly despite their years of friendship eroding such formalities long ago. She fixed Evelyn with sharp blue eyes—eyes accustomed to seeing through masks since childhood games behind hedgerows and funeral parlors alike.

“So…how is Lisbon?” There was no malice there but something else—a cautiousness bordering on skepticism that made Evelyn bristle defensively even before words formed fully between them.

“He seems happy,” Evelyn said lightly while folding napkin edges over nervous fingers. “Says he wishes we could walk together along those riverbanks someday.”

Dot snorted faintly but softened it by patting Evelyn’s knee through layers of wool blanket draped there more for comfort than cold these early spring nights brought ashore.

“And when does ‘someday’ become ‘soon,’ Evie?”

Evelyn hesitated then looked away—to faded postcards pinned above her desk or perhaps just into old shadows gathering behind glass-fronted cabinets stuffed with memories.

“He says flights are tricky just now,” she murmured after too long a pause.

“There are always delays—or strikes—or lost documents…” She trailed off under Dot’s silent scrutiny.

“But next month maybe…”

Dot said nothing at first except to stir honey into tea so vigorously it threatened spillage.

After another beat: “Just keep your wits about you, love.”

“I know.” But even as she spoke doubt gnawed quietly at some small corner inside—a place easily ignored amid hope’s noisy brightness yet impossible to silence entirely once acknowledged.

Dot reached across then squeezed Evelyn’s hand; hers was cool and dry—the sort of grasp meant less for reassurance than grounding someone adrift.

“I just want you safe.”

Later that night after dishes had been washed (though neither truly ate much) and Dot shuffled homeward beneath streetlamps bowing under April gusts,

Evelyn settled upstairs among patchwork quilts heavy with lavender scent.

She scrolled back through messages from Michael:

photos captioned *Thinking of our sunset walks*,

voice notes spun gold by distance,

promises spun finer still—

so many tomorrows shimmering beyond reach yet close enough to taste if only she kept believing another day longer.

The next morning dawned pale through salt-streaked windows; gulls shrieked overhead while waves nipped hungrily at pebbled sand below town walls.

Evelyn woke earlier than usual,

heart thumping oddly as if summoned from dreams left unfinished.

Downstairs,

the house smelled faintly musty—rain sneaking past weatherstripping overnight,

old bread forgotten on its board beside hardened butter curls—

but none of this registered as much as

the single new message blinking atop all others:

*Morning sunshine—I hate asking this…but I’ve run into trouble booking my ticket again.*

*Bank error—they froze my card because I’m abroad.*

*Could you possibly help cover part? Just till I get sorted here.*

*A hundred euros would do wonders—I’ll pay you back straightaway.*

His words pulsed urgent yet apologetic;

beneath them fluttered another photo:

a boarding pass cropped artfully beside passport pages blurred at corners,

as though anxiety itself had smudged their lines.

Evelyn stared so long even steam curling from her cup seemed impatient.

In that moment—

as sunlight spilled thinly across kitchen tiles

and somewhere church bells tolled half-past seven through fog thickening over sea cliffs—

her thumb hovered uncertain above reply,

caught between longing bright as flame

and something colder pricking doubt along every nerve.

She set down the phone without answering,

palms damp against porcelain mug.

But already questions crowded hard upon each other;

already tomorrow threatened everything today dared hope might come true.

Across town,

in shadow-dappled rooms lined by hydrangea blooms gone leggy from neglect,

rumors would soon begin circling—

and trust itself would prove far easier given than reclaimed

CHAPTER 5: Promises Carried on Tides

The kettle’s whistle was sharp enough to slice through the hush of Evelyn’s kitchen. She moved slowly, pouring hot water into her favorite mug—a thick, blue ceramic one, chipped at the rim—watching as steam curled and vanished above a teabag. Outside, a squall rattled the windowpanes; rain streaked down in quicksilver threads, blurring the view of her sodden garden and the grey Atlantic beyond. The house felt smaller on days like this, its walls crowding close with old memories and quiet aches.

She carried her tea to the living room where her phone waited on the crocheted doily by the armchair. Michael had messaged: “Can we talk? I want to see you.” He never missed their morning calls anymore. Not since he’d begun sharing poetry in his slow, careful voice—pieces about loss and longing that made something inside her unfurl.

Evelyn settled onto the cushion, drawing a woolen throw over her knees. Her thumb hovered over the video icon longer than usual; she caught sight of herself in the dark screen—the deepening lines around her mouth, white hair pulled back tight—and hesitated. She pressed call anyway.

It rang once before Michael answered, his face flickering into view against a nondescript backdrop: off-white walls, a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks stacked every which way. Always tidy but impersonal, as if he lived nowhere and everywhere at once.

“Good morning,” he said softly. His accent was gentle English with an undercurrent she couldn’t quite place—sometimes clipped vowels softened into something warmer.

“It’s raining again,” Evelyn replied after a moment. “I think even my hydrangeas are tired.”

He smiled—a little crookedly—and she felt warmth bloom across her chest.

“I wish I could bring you some sunshine,” Michael said. “Or at least hold your hand till it passes.”

She laughed despite herself. “You’re too far for that.”

“For now.” He leaned closer to his camera until only half his face filled her screen—the arch of an eyebrow, that dimple near his lip when he grinned. “But not forever.”

They talked for nearly an hour: about books (he’d started rereading Hardy), music (she recommended Debussy for rainy afternoons), how sleep sometimes eluded them both now that they lived alone.

When silence fell between them it wasn’t awkward—not anymore—but soft and companionable.

Michael broke it first with a sigh that seemed genuine enough to make Evelyn sit up straighter.

“I need to ask you something,” he said quietly.

Her heart ticked faster; she tucked one foot under herself for comfort. “Of course.”

He hesitated just long enough for dread to flutter in her stomach before continuing: “I… might have a bit of trouble arranging my travel next month.” He looked away from the camera as if embarrassed—fingers fidgeting with something out of frame. “There was an issue wiring money from my bank today—they’ve put a temporary hold because I’m abroad on business.”

“Oh,” Evelyn said softly, trying not to sound disappointed or suspicious or anything at all except sympathetic. She remembered Dot’s warning from last week—how men online sometimes asked for help—but Michael had never hinted at such things before now.

“I hate asking you this.” His eyes found hers again; they looked wounded somehow, brimming with regret rather than expectation. “Would it be possible… could you lend me fifty pounds? Just until this is sorted? I’ll pay you back straightaway.”

Fifty pounds wasn’t much—not really—and hadn’t she spent more than that on art supplies without blinking? Still she heard Claire’s voice rising sharp in memory: Mum, please be careful online! You hardly know him—

Evelyn sipped her tea instead of answering right away; its heat steadied her hands but did nothing for the chill inching up inside.

“How would I send it?” she managed eventually.

“There are apps—it takes just minutes these days.” He smiled apologetically again. “Only if it’s no trouble—I’ll understand completely if not.”

She nodded so he wouldn’t see how uncertain she felt; then changed topics quickly—to films this time—and let laughter ease them both back toward safer ground until they said goodbye with promises for tomorrow’s call ringing sweetly between them like church bells across water.

Afterward Evelyn sat staring into cooling tea while rain battered glass behind her head.

 

Later that afternoon Dot appeared at Evelyn’s door carrying a loaf wrapped in wax paper and smelling faintly of cinnamon sugar—a peace offering after last week’s argument over politics neither truly cared about.

“You look tired,” Dot announced by way of greeting as soon as Evelyn opened up.

“Just didn’t sleep well,” Evelyn lied automatically though fatigue clung heavy as wet wool around her shoulders.

Dot bustled past into the kitchen without waiting for invitation—the same way she’d done since they were girls stealing biscuits from Mrs Atwell’s pantry.

“Tea?” Dot asked already reaching for cups.

“There’s plenty left.”

They sat together watching condensation bead along the window while seagulls wheeled outside squawking their complaints into wind.

“So how is Mr Wonderful?” Dot finally asked—not unkindly but with eyebrows raised high above smudged reading glasses.

Evelyn tried smiling but it faltered halfway there.

“He says he wants to come visit next month.”

Dot sliced bread methodically then offered thick slabs dusted golden at their edges.

“That so?”

“He asked me to help with some travel money this morning.” The words came out quieter than intended.

Dot set down knife carefully then reached across table squeezing Evelyn’s hand hard enough knuckles whitened beneath translucent skin.

“Did you send him anything yet?”

“No.”

Dot released breath slow through pursed lips—relief mingling with worry plain as day on lined face.

“Don’t rush yourself Evie,” she murmured gently now eyes searching hers for hidden truths or wounds too raw yet named aloud.

 

The rest of their conversation meandered through safer topics—the upcoming book club meeting (“If Ruth picks another detective novel I’ll scream”), aches in knees (“Weather like this always does me in”), memories half-remembered from summers chasing ice cream trucks barefoot along Main Street.

 

But underneath everything ran an uneasy current neither acknowledged directly: fear threaded through hope stubborn as tidegrass clinging after storms.

 

That night after dishes were washed and lights dimmed low against creeping dusk Evelyn lingered over messages scrolling endlessly upward—a digital diary cataloguing weeks filled now with poems sent by Michael (“Your name is written in sea foam / Your absence curls cold beneath my ribs”), snapshots supposedly snapped outside London cafes (always blurred faces behind him), snippets of voice notes so intimate they stilled breath inside chest before dissolving into static longing once more.

 

A new message flashed:

 

“My darling Eve—I hope today was gentle on your heart.”

 

She typed back before thinking better:

 

“It would have been lonelier without you.”

 

His reply came almost instantly:

 

“One day soon we’ll walk those beaches together.”

 

Evelyn closed her eyes picturing two silhouettes ambling beneath salt-stained sky—her own shadow stretched long beside someone solid warm real beside waves breaking silver-blue upon familiar sand—

then forced herself upright blinking against foolishness pooling sharp behind lashes.

 

Across town Claire phoned just before midnight sounding brusque even through static:

 

“Mum—you weren’t answering earlier.”

 

Evelyn feigned cheerfulness pushing guilt aside:

 

“I went walking after supper lost track time is all.”

 

A pause weighted heavy between them before Claire pressed further—

“You haven’t sent anyone money online have you?”

 

“No darling.” Not yet echoed silently afterwards making fingers tighten round quilt bunched near chin.

Claire sighed—skeptical but resigned—

“All right… Just promise me you’ll call if anything strange happens?”

“Yes love.” But when call ended silence returned emptier than ever—a silence crowded by unsent messages drafts deleted unread confessions still trembling somewhere deep within marrow bone blood heart aching hollow beneath lullaby rhythm rain drumming steady relentless overhead roof shingles ticking down hours until dawn cracked open new doubts alongside light spilled pale-gold across faded floorboards waiting silent watchful as tide itself ever returning never quite bringing what was promised ashore.

In bed later Evelyn stared up at shadows shifting ceiling corners recalling fragments from Michael’s latest poem—the closing line circling round mind like gulls lost inland:

*Let us trust what tomorrow brings.*

As thunder rolled distantly out past black horizon,

she wondered if trust was just another word carried off each night by wind,

leaving only longing behind—

and whether any promise could survive such tides unraveling between worlds unseen,

where truth drifted farther each day from shore.

Downstairs,

her phone vibrated once more—

a new message lighting up darkness:

*Can we talk? It can’t wait.*

CHAPTER 6: Warning Bells

Evelyn’s phone vibrated across the kitchen table, a soft staccato against the faded wood. She reached for it with flour-dusted fingers, half an eye on the scone dough she was kneading in the chipped mixing bowl. The screen bloomed with Michael’s name and a small, smiling thumbnail—his hair silver at the temples, cheeks burnished by some imagined sun.

She pressed “accept,” wiping her hands hastily on a tea towel as his voice filtered in—low, gentle, just slightly roughened by distance.

“Good morning, beautiful Evelyn.” He always said her name like it was something rare.

She smiled before she could help herself. “You’re up early.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I kept thinking of you. Are you baking again?”

He must have heard the clatter of utensils or maybe caught sight of flour dusting her cardigan sleeve; he noticed everything—or claimed to. She liked that about him.

“Scones this time,” she said, glancing out at the pale strip of sea beyond her window. “Dot says my currant ones are better than Mrs. Gibbons’ from the bakery, but I suspect she’s just being kind.”

“I’d give anything to taste them.” His face flickered slightly—just a hiccup in the connection—and then smoothed into place again, eyes warm and longing. “Maybe soon I will.”

Something fluttered in her chest—a thrill edged with disbelief that someone wanted her still, after all these years and losses.

He told her about his night: restless dreams of trains missed and airports closing doors just as he reached them—a recurring motif lately—before asking about her plans for the day. She described errands: returning overdue library books, dropping off soup at Ruth Ellery’s house (“her arthritis is acting up”), maybe a walk down to watch gulls wheel above low tide.

Michael listened closely; he always did. He even recited a few lines from some poem—Byron? Keats?—about partings and windswept shores that made her laugh aloud despite herself.

Midway through their call Dot let herself in through the back door without knocking—as usual—arms full of laundry for folding club at St. Agnes’. Dot took one look at Evelyn’s beaming face and raised an eyebrow before setting down her basket beside the radiator.

“Don’t let me interrupt your international love affair,” Dot called over cheerfully as she shook out pillowcases dusted with lint.

Evelyn flushed but didn’t end the call; instead she held up her phone so Michael could wave hello to Dot—a gesture now familiar enough to seem routine rather than bold.

Afterward Dot set water boiling for tea and began folding towels with brisk efficiency while Evelyn finished speaking with Michael: goodbyes drawn out longer than necessary (“Write when you land at work?”/”Of course—I’ll think of you all day”).

When Evelyn finally hung up, Dot fixed her with a searching look—the kind that saw past lipstick or laughter straight through to bone-deep feeling.

“You’re glowing like it’s prom night,” Dot said lightly but didn’t smile this time.

Evelyn busied herself tidying away bowls and spoons before answering. “He makes me feel…young again.” She tried to keep it casual but warmth colored every word.

Dot nodded slowly but said nothing for several moments except for methodical snapping of sheets—a rhythm older than their friendship itself.

At last: “Remind me where he lives again?”

Evelyn hesitated—not because she didn’t know (London suburb) but because lately Michael’s answers had shifted slightly each time they spoke: sometimes Oxfordshire near his daughter; sometimes outside Leeds where his cousin ran a pub recovering from COVID closures; always somewhere just far enough to explain why visits were delayed yet plausible enough not to raise suspicion outright…until now, hearing it aloud under Dot’s steady gaze.

“He moves around,” Evelyn settled on finally. “Consulting contracts keep him traveling quite a bit.”

Dot hummed noncommittally as if tasting something sour beneath sugar glaze. “It must be hard never knowing exactly where someone stands.”

Evelyn bristled—a reflex from years defending choices others found inexplicable—but forced herself to stay gentle. “It isn’t easy no matter how close someone lives if they don’t care.” A memory flashed sharp: empty side of bed cooling after Henry died; silence thickening over months until loneliness became ordinary as rain.

Dot softened then—apologetic crease smoothing between brows—but pressed on quietly: “Just promise you’ll take care.” She tucked folded linens into Evelyn’s arms like armor or offering both at once.

Later that afternoon Claire rang unexpectedly—not video this time but audio only, staticky from Bluetooth headset mid-errand run somewhere between pediatrician appointments and Sainsbury’s car park chaos three towns over.

 

“Mum? You busy?”

Evelyn perched on edge of armchair beneath bay window where sunlight dappled lace curtains gold-and-grey by turns.

 

“Not especially.”

 

A pause filled by children shrieking faintly in background—Claire shushing them absently before focusing back.

 

“So…how are things going—with your friend?” Her tone managed careful neutrality stretched thin over worry.

 

“He called this morning,” Evelyn replied defensively light but unable to quite mask pride blooming inside her chest like anemones opening underwater.

 

Claire sighed audibly then lowered voice: “Mum—it feels fast doesn’t it? You barely knew each other two months ago.”

 

“We talk every day.”

 

“But do you *really* know him?”

 

Something old surfaced between them—resentment crusted round edges since Claire left home decades earlier for city job and safer distances both physical and emotional.

 

“He tells me everything,” Evelyn insisted though even as she spoke remembered small oddities accumulating: favorite football team changing week-to-week; photo backgrounds repeating suspiciously often (“That same painting behind him again?”); story about late wife shifting details depending on mood or distraction.

 

Claire pressed gently now: “Has he asked for money?”

 

“No!” The word burst out too quickly then softer: “…Just little things here and there.” She recalled Michael apologizing profusely last week after claiming bank card blocked overseas during conference trip (“Could I borrow just £75 until Monday?”)—swearing repayment next wire transfer cleared—but what harm was there really?

 

Claire exhaled sharply through nose—the sound brittle as snapped twigs.

 

“I know what loneliness feels like mum—but please promise me you’ll be careful.”

 

They ended call soon after awkwardly—with love left unsaid because neither trusted its shape any more—or perhaps because saying it made fears realer somehow.

  

As dusk gathered along windowsills Evelyn retreated into rituals meant to hush misgivings: watering spider plants drooping near sink (leaves furred white by salt spray), restacking books scattered along hallway shelf (spines cracked open most often those Henry loved best), lighting one beeswax candle whose flame danced gold against framed photographs lining mantelpiece.

  

She set kettle whistling while checking email out of habit more than hope—and there he was already waiting:

  

**From:** michaelashford79@outlook.com

**To:** evelynharper42@gmail.com

**Subject:** Bad News Again…

My dearest Evie,

How I wish I could write happier news tonight! My flight has been postponed yet again due to new visa processing delays—they say another week minimum now before approval comes through…

I am so sorry darling—I promise I want nothing more than to see you walking along your beautiful shorelines hand-in-hand very soon! The agent says if we can pay an expedited fee (£120) things might move quicker (he sent invoice attached). If only my UK account weren’t frozen right now… Can you possibly help cover this? Just until Friday when payroll clears?

I hate asking—I truly do—you deserve better than these endless setbacks!

All my love,

Michael

Her pulse ticked erratically reading those lines—a strange mixture of flattery (he needed *her*, relied on *her*) tangled with embarrassment she couldn’t quite name. Wasn’t this what partnership meant? Helping through rough patches?

  

Still… Something stuck sideways in memory—the way Claire had asked today whether money requests ever came up; how Dot looked away too quickly earlier when Michael waved onscreen; tiny details stacking together like pebbles filling old jam jars above kitchen sink.

  

She clicked open attachment anyway scanning invoice header—all bland fonts and official-looking stamps—but noticed file properties listed creation date as yesterday evening not hours ago as claimed; sender address misspelled company name minutely (“Proccessing”).

  

A knock rattled front door startling her upright—heart thudding unreasonably loud in quiet hallways hollowed by twilight.

  

On porch stood Ruth Ellery bundled tight against wind bearing Tupperware full of parsnip soup (“trade for tomorrow’s scones”) who handed over container then lingered uncertainly just inside threshold watching candlelight flicker across Evelyn’s face.

  

“You alright dear?” Ruth ventured after long moment studying shadows cast deep beneath Evelyn’s eyes.

  

“Yes,” lied Evelyn automatically though voice sounded foreign even within familiar walls thick with scent of rosemary drying above stove.

  

Ruth shifted weight awkwardly heel-to-toe then blurted low so no neighbor might overhear:

  

“If ever something feels wrong—even if just online—you come get me straightaway.” Her hand squeezed cold-numbed fingers briefly before letting go leaving behind warmth stubborn as hope itself lingering long after footsteps faded down path toward darkened streetlights shimmering wetly across cobblestones slick with salt mist.

Alone again Evelyn sat staring at blinking cursor beneath Michael’s latest message wondering which version of truth belonged most fiercely to her—the one built brick-by-brick from longing or another waiting silent behind warning bells tolling steadily louder inside ribcage.

The kettle screamed atop burner unanswered while outside gulls wheeled restlessly overhead unsettled by storm coming unseen beyond horizon.

And this time when she reread Michael’s plea—for money, trust, belief stronger than doubt—she did not reply right away.

Instead she let silence settle heavy between heartbeats certain something vital depended upon what happened next.

CHAPTER 7: Denial’s Last Refuge

Evelyn Harper woke to a shaft of weak sunlight slanting through the lace curtain, painting her ceiling with trembling patterns. The scent of salt and old tea lingered in the air—some left in the cup by her bedside, now cold and faintly bitter. She lay still, listening to the hush of her house: radiator ticking, gulls crying beyond glass. The ache behind her eyes from too little sleep pressed down; she’d been up late again, phone glowing blue against her palm.

She reached for it before she even sat up, thumb fumbling at the side button. Three unread messages from Michael waited on WhatsApp, his profile picture—a handsome man with silver at his temples and laughing lines around dark eyes—smiling up at her as if he could see straight through to her soul.

*Good morning, my darling Eve! I dreamt about you last night.*

*I miss your smile already.*

*Counting down the days until I can hold your hand by that wild Atlantic.*

Her lips curved involuntarily. She typed back one-handed: *You’re sweet to say so. No dreams for me last night—just restless tossing! Maybe tonight I’ll see you there?*

A minute later: *I wish I could send you coffee and croissants right now. Soon.*

She set the phone aside with a giddy flutter under her ribs that felt both foolish and precious. Seventy-four years old and here she was—blushing over a message like a girl after school.

Downstairs, Dot’s voice floated through an open window—the clatter of bins next door meant it was Tuesday already. Evelyn moved slowly; knees stiff as she padded across faded linoleum into the kitchen, kettle filling with a hiss of tap water. She spooned Darjeeling into a chipped mug and found herself humming while she waited for it to steep.

The town outside was waking too: delivery van idling by Mrs. Partridge’s bakery; distant clang of gulls chasing scraps from trawlers returning on the tide. Her garden glistened from overnight rain—fat drops clung to foxglove bells where bees would soon bumble—and everything smelled fresh, sharp-edged.

By ten o’clock she had dressed (soft cardigan over last year’s striped shirt) and tidied away breakfast crumbs when Michael called again—a video chat this time. She propped the phone on its stand atop an art book stack beside the battered sofa.

His face bloomed onto the screen: “There’s my beautiful English rose.” His accent teased out every syllable in a way that always made something inside her soften.

“Oh stop,” Evelyn laughed despite herself, tucking stray hair behind one ear.

“I mean it,” Michael said warmly, “I wish I could be there today—with you.”

He wore another pale blue shirt; sunlight angled across high-rise windows behind him—a cityscape far from any ocean breeze.

“Where are you?” she asked lightly. “That doesn’t look like Paris.”

Michael smiled sheepishly. “Ah—it’s just temporary lodgings while they finish work at my apartment.”

She nodded along but frowned inwardly; hadn’t he said two weeks ago that renovations were finished? Or maybe he’d meant another place? It didn’t matter—not really—but something small snagged at her memory.

He filled silence with news about his daughter (always ‘at university’ but never specifics), his plans for booking tickets soon if only his bank would sort out that frustrating transfer delay—

“It’s ridiculous,” he said ruefully. “International banking—they treat me like some criminal!” He grinned apologetically before continuing: “But no worries—I’ve got most of it sorted except…well…I hate even asking you this…”

Evelyn leaned closer without thinking, pulse quickening even as logic tried to rear up inside her chest like some warning dog straining against its leash.

“What is it?”

He explained (haltingly): sudden new travel insurance fee due before issuing his ticket; couldn’t access funds till Monday because banks abroad were closed for public holiday—

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent,” Michael said softly. “Just…one hundred pounds should cover it? I’ll pay you back as soon as I land.”

Something in his voice—the gentleness edged with embarrassment—made Evelyn want to soothe him more than anything else in that moment.

“Of course,” she heard herself say quickly, almost interrupting him out of relief he’d trusted her enough to ask such a thing. “Let me log in now—I can send it straightaway!”

Michael’s gratitude seemed genuine enough (“You’re truly an angel—I don’t deserve you”), but guilt crept cold beneath her excitement as she opened her laptop on the kitchen table beside last week’s crossword puzzle.

As money moved between screens and passwords blurred together under trembling fingers, Evelyn caught sight of herself reflected dimly in glass: stooped shoulders drawn forward; mouth pursed tight above loose skin folded soft around chin and cheeks gone thin with age—

Was this what trust looked like? Or need?

A ping signaled success—and then Michael was blowing kisses onscreen (“Thank you! You’ve saved me yet again!”). He promised details once flights were booked; asked after Dot (“Your friend seems lovely”) and told another story about walking along beaches as a child in Nice—

Later that afternoon Dot dropped by unannounced, holding two paper bags smelling faintly yeasty from Partridge’s bakery.

“You’ve been scarce lately.” Dot handed over warm scones wrapped in napkins decorated with painted violets—a leftover flourish from some church event ages ago.

Evelyn forced brightness into her tone: “Oh—you know how winter gets me nesting.”

Dot watched quietly as Evelyn fussed over plates and butter knives before settling opposite at the kitchen table where dust motes drifted lazily overhead.

“So…” Dot began after biting into half a scone, brushing crumbs off faded blue corduroy trousers. “How is our mystery man these days?”

Evelyn let out a soft laugh—too loud maybe—and shrugged with deliberate nonchalance.”He sends poetry now,” she admitted shyly.”And pictures from Paris streets…or wherever he is today!”

Dot tapped fingers against china mug.”Funny—that view behind him yesterday looked more…modern than Paris ought to be.” Her eyes crinkled kindly but did not waver.”Didn’t he say he lived near Montmartre?”

“Well yes—but perhaps hotels have changed since we went all those years ago…” Evelyn busied herself slicing open another scone rather than meet Dot’s gaze head-on.”Besides—it hardly matters where exactly he is so long as we talk.”

Silence grew thick between them until Dot exhaled softly.”Just promise me you’re being careful?” Her voice held no accusation—only concern worn thin by repetition.”Sometimes people aren’t who they seem online.”

Evelyn bristled despite herself.”You sound just like Claire.” The name slipped out sharper than intended—and immediately regret followed hot on its heels.”Sorry…it’s just…I know what I’m doing.”

Dot smiled gently but sadness pinched at corners of her mouth.”We all think we do,” she murmured,”until we don’t anymore.”

After Dot left—with promises to check in tomorrow and leftover scones bundled up for supper—Evelyn wandered restlessly through quiet rooms suddenly seeming larger than before.Her late husband Arthur stared solemn-eyed from sepia frames lining mantelpiece.She touched one absently—the glass cool beneath trembling fingertips—as if seeking reassurance from someone who could no longer answer back.She wanted so much for this hope not to be hollow—to believe kindness when offered without reservation.Even if part of her knew better.Even if sometimes—in half-sleep or dusk-lit reverie—the shadowy outlines around Michael’s stories flickered jagged at their edges.Later,in bed,she opened WhatsApp again.Michael had sent another poem:”Love crosses oceans / longing steers every tide / faith brings us home.”Beneath,it read:*Boarding soon,my darling.Wait for me.*The sea wind rattled brittle branches against windowpane.Darkness pressed close.Evelyn clutched phone close beneath covers,pulse thudding raw,fighting down doubts rising fierce within.A single question echoed louder each time:*What will happen when—or if—he ever arrives?*

CHAPTER 8: Fraying Edges

A gull’s cry pierced the morning as Evelyn Harper pressed her cheek against the kitchen window, steam from her mug blurring the panes in soft halos. The sea was restless today, pewter waves shoving up against weed-choked rocks, and she let herself watch them for a while—just the colorless churn and the slow advance of light over the dunes. It was nearly nine; Michael would message soon.

She set her tea beside a half-eaten slice of toast, crumbs scattered across the blue linoleum. Her phone buzzed on the counter, screen lighting with his name: Michael Ashford. That little green dot beside his profile photo made something flutter inside her chest—a small hopeful ache that hadn’t quite worn out its welcome.

*Good morning beautiful,* his text read. *Did you sleep well?*

Evelyn hesitated before replying, fingers hovering above glass. She’d dreamt about him again: faceless arms holding her beneath a sky stitched with stars. She wrote back anyway—*Morning love. I slept but missed our call.* He responded at once with a heart and one of those yellow smiley faces he favored.

The house felt unusually silent as she waited for his next message, only the tick of Dot’s old wall clock and a faint hum from the fridge filling up space around her thoughts.

Her phone pinged again: *Can we talk now? I want to see your face.*

She glanced at herself in the toaster’s reflection—hair still mussed from sleep, lines bracketing her mouth deeper than yesterday—and smoothed it down with dampened hands. The video call icon pulsed on screen; she tapped it and held her breath until his face appeared, grainy but warm.

“Evelyn!” His voice sounded richer through earbuds than any speaker—the hint of an accent she couldn’t quite place adding music to each syllable. “You look radiant this morning.”

She laughed softly, self-consciousness prickling behind her ears. “Oh please, Michael. I haven’t even brushed my hair yet.”

“I like you just as you are,” he said gently.

That simple line undid something tight in her chest; she shifted in her chair so sunlight fell across one shoulder and tried not to blush like a schoolgirl.

He began describing his breakfast—a cinnamon roll from some bakery near his flat—and how he wished he could bring one to share over coffee by Evelyn’s sea-view window. She listened for every small detail: how he lingered over words like ‘buttery’ and ‘warm,’ how he closed his eyes when imagining biting into flaky pastry.

They talked about art next—her watercolors drying in neat rows atop newspaper in the sunroom; sketches she’d started after their last conversation about childhood homes—but mostly they spoke about hope disguised as plans: which walks they’d take along windswept beaches when (not if) he visited this summer; what stories they’d tell over mugs of strong tea after rainstorms rolled through town.

Eventually Michael glanced away from camera view—as if distracted by something offscreen—and apologized for being preoccupied lately.

“It’s just… things have been difficult here,” he murmured, rubbing at temples as though fighting off exhaustion or worry she couldn’t quite reach across continents to soothe.

“What sort of difficulties?” she asked softly.

He smiled ruefully at first—then told some muddled story about delays with paperwork at work and an unexpected tax bill that had wiped out most of his savings for travel. “I’m embarrassed even mentioning it,” he said quietly, “but I promised you I’d come this spring.”

An uncomfortable weight pressed itself between them then—a pause thickened by static and distance alike—until Evelyn cleared her throat and changed topics to spare him further shame (and herself a creeping unease).

After their call ended forty minutes later—with all its laughter threaded neatly through concern—she stood staring at blank tiles above the stove long after Michael’s image winked away into digital nothingness.

Outside, Dot’s familiar footsteps crunched along gravel toward Evelyn’s front steps—a rhythm steady enough that even seagulls quieted briefly before resuming their quarrel overhead.

Evelyn opened the door before Dot could knock. Her friend was bundled against spring chill in an ancient pea coat dotted with flour dust (“Baking day,” Dot always claimed), cheeks flushed beneath wispy grey hair pulled back into a crooked braid.

“Thought I smelled toast,” Dot announced without preamble, pushing past Evelyn into warmth scented faintly of lavender polish and Earl Grey leaves gone stale in their tin.

“It went cold,” Evelyn replied automatically—but fetched another cup anyway while Dot settled noisily into an armchair worn smooth by decades of Sunday afternoons spent gossiping or grieving together by turns.

For several moments they simply shared silence—the kind only possible between old friends who’ve learned patience is sometimes more valuable than answers—before Dot shot a sideways glance sharp enough to nick skin if Evelyn wasn’t careful.

“So?” Dot asked finally, voice pitched low but not unkind. “Was that him?”

Evelyn busied herself buttering fresh bread instead of meeting those blue-grey eyes head-on.”Yes.” She tried to sound casual but heard brittleness crackling underneath each word like ice beneath heavy boots.”We were talking about… oh everything really.”

Dot watched crumbs tumble from knife blade onto plate.”You’re seeing him every day now?”

Evelyn shrugged.”Not always video calls—it depends on schedules.” But even as she said it doubt flickered somewhere deep inside: Hadn’t there been more canceled calls lately? More messages apologizing for spotty internet?

Dot reached out gently covered Evelyn’s hand where it trembled faintly beside chipped saucer.”You seem happier these days—but tired too.” Her thumb traced slow circles over wrinkled knuckles.”Is everything alright?”

Evelyn almost lied outright then—but couldn’t quite muster bravado required for such effortless deception among those who’d seen too much already.”He wants to visit soon,” she whispered instead,”But there are complications.”

Dot raised one eyebrow as if weighing whether or not to press harder—and chose kindness instead.”You know I’ll help however you need me.” There was no judgment tucked inside offer; just loyalty forged long ago over lost husbands and hospital vigils neither cared to recall aloud anymore.”

Thank you,” Evelyn managed,”It means more than you know.”

They finished tea quietly after that; outside someone mowed distant grass while wind rattled porch railings loose from winter’s grip.Evelyn found solace in ordinary routine—even as uncertainty gnawed holes through certainty beneath surface calm

By late afternoon clouds had gathered heavy above slate rooftops turning garden beds below slick with shadow.Sunlight bled pale gold through lace curtains illuminating dust motes swirling atop sideboard where family photographs leaned haphazardly beside stacks of unopened mail

On impulse,Evelyn fetched laptop back into living room.Her inbox blinked alive instantly:a new message from Michael,sent less than twenty minutes earlier

*Sweetheart,I feel terrible asking but…I’m short on cash for train fare tomorrow.They’re charging extra because of some holiday.I promise,I’ll pay you back first thing when we meet.Could you send 200 pounds?Just this once.Love,M.*

Her heart gave one uncertain thud.She scrolled up reading prior promises written weeks apart—all variations on same longing wishfulness:soon,my darling.soon

She moved cursor toward reply box but stopped,fingers suspended midair.Michael never asked before—not directly.Not until now.Didn’t people say these things happened?Ruth Ellery at church warned everyone last month:banks freezing accounts,fake names,lost money never returned.But Ruth hadn’t met anyone like Michael.She didn’t understand what it meant having someone listen so closely,to remember birthdays or favorite flowers,to write poems just because dusk reminded him of your laugh

Still,doubt pricked sharper than guilt.Evelyn left laptop open walked outside letting salt wind sting cheeks raw.In distance,a ship cut slow path toward horizon,bow dipping gray-blue water.Across street Claire’s car idled curbside door slamming hard enough send two pigeons flapping skyward

Claire hurried up garden walk carrying reusable grocery bag brimming oranges bread milk.She wore fatigue openly these days jaw tight eyes rimmed red behind glasses too large for narrow face

“Hi Mum.You alright?”Claire scanned porch gaze skittering past empty mug forgotten step

“I’m fine.Just needed air.”Evelyn forced smile watching daughter scan horizon suspicion knitted brow

“Dot called me earlier.Said maybe we should all have dinner soon—you know,together.Like before Dad…”Claire trailed off awkwardness hanging thick between them both

“That sounds nice dear.I’ll check calendar.”Evelyn took groceries grateful for distraction stacking apples carefully bowl beside sink noting tremor wouldn’t leave hands alone today no matter how many times wiped palms apron hem

Claire lingered doorway voice softening fraction:”If there’s anything odd going on,you’ll tell me,right?”

Evelyn nodded too quickly avoiding eye contact busying herself rearranging soup cans shelf already perfectly ordered.Maybe Claire saw fear maybe not.Either way neither woman breached wall built sturdy enough keep loss—or possibility betrayal—from flooding kitchen floor again

Later that evening after Claire left,Evelyn sat alone sorting bills under lamplight shadows stretching long across carpet.Phone vibrated once more.Michael:”Please darling—I hate asking.Feel awful.Can explain everything when we talk.Promise”

In answer,Evelyn closed laptop lid slowly listening house settle creak groan bones grown weary keeping secrets.Wind battered shingles outside thunder rolling closer each second.Beneath table stray coin spun lazy circle pausing edge parchment letterhead stamped official blue ink unreadable signature smeared corner page.Everything felt suddenly fragile—as if one wrong move might unravel whole world stitched together by faith hope borrowed time

Upstairs bedside lamp flickered guttered then steadied casting golden pool around wedding band resting dish painted violets faded almost beyond recognition.She picked ring up rolling metal palm tracing inscription worn thin years ago by laundry soap dishwater grief unspeakable longing now threatening spill forth anew.Her thumb caught groove memory surfaced sharp clear:

“Don’t lose yourself chasing ghosts,”Arthur used whisper nights when loneliness prowled halls hunched shoulders corners darkened rooms empty save heartbeat echoing unanswered prayer.She slipped ring onto finger breathing shallow afraid what came next might be final undoing—or necessary beginning.As thunder cracked overhead,she reached once more for phone poised halfway between trust ruin letting silence settle heavy waiting—for what answer would come when truth arrived uninvited hungry persistent relentless as tide pulling all things home

CHAPTER 9: Truth Unmasked Under Gray Skies

Rain clung to the windowpane in silvered threads, turning Evelyn’s world into a watercolor blur. She stood at her kitchen sink, hands wrapped around a chipped mug of tea gone lukewarm, and watched the tide crawl up the shingle as if it, too, was reluctant to face what morning had brought.

Her phone pinged—a sharp intrusion against the hush. Michael’s name lit up the screen. “Good morning, dearest Ev,” his message read. “I dreamt of you last night. Hope your day begins with sunshine.” The words should have felt like balm; instead they prickled along her skin.

She set the mug down on the draining board beside yesterday’s plates she hadn’t found energy to wash. All week there’d been small oddities—messages sent at strange hours, stories that didn’t quite align. Michael claiming he’d spoken to customs at Heathrow about his trip when only days before he’d insisted he was still in Berlin. The photos he sent—always handsome in a slightly blurred way—carried backgrounds that nagged at her with their sameness: always indoors, always just enough detail and never more.

Evelyn tapped out a reply with stiff fingers: “Rain here again! How did you sleep?” Then hesitated before pressing send.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed ten; Dot would be by soon for their walk if it let up outside. Evelyn wiped condensation from the glass and tried not to think about how quickly her world had shrunk—from galleries and cafés to this narrow lane of kitchen routines and digital hope.

A second ping: Michael again. This time a voice note—his accent warm and lilting as ever, promising he’d call later if work allowed. He sounded tired but loving. Or perhaps she only heard what she wanted.

She left her phone on the counter and wandered into the sitting room, where faded watercolors lined one wall above stacks of sketchbooks layered in dust motes and neglect. She thought of painting something new—the view from her window perhaps—but couldn’t summon color or shape from under this grayness inside her chest.

Dot arrived without knocking, shaking rain from her umbrella onto Evelyn’s mat before stooping to untie muddy boots.

“You look miles away,” Dot said softly, peeling off gloves finger by finger.

Evelyn tried for brightness but it faltered halfway out: “Just thinking about that lemon cake you promised me.”

Dot grinned but studied her face all the same; she was always watching these days, quick-eyed as a gull after crumbs.

They walked anyway—umbrellas bobbing along puddled streets bordered by wind-warped hydrangeas heavy with rainwater. Seagulls wheeled overhead; somewhere behind them came muffled laughter from Baker’s Lane where schoolchildren splashed through gutters unburdened by adult doubts.

“Have you heard anything more about Michael?” Dot asked as they paused beneath Mrs. Blanchard’s overgrown rose archway—the blooms sodden pink fists against sagging trellis.

“He says he’ll be here soon,” Evelyn replied automatically, then softer: “But I’m not sure anymore.”

Dot tucked loose hair behind one ear—a nervous gesture Evelyn recognized from childhood games on this very street—and said nothing for a moment except for the steady drip-drip onto their umbrellas.

“There are things that don’t add up,” Evelyn confessed finally, voice catching around each syllable like pebbles underfoot. “His stories change sometimes…Little things I might have missed before.”

Dot squeezed her arm gently through layers of wool coat. “You know you can tell me anything.”

“I want him to be real so badly,” Evelyn whispered into damp air thick with salt and secrets she could barely admit even now.

Back home an hour later—with cheeks tingling from cold—they sat opposite each other over slices of stale lemon cake Dot had rescued from yesterday’s bakery run. Rain battered harder against windows now; seagulls’ cries grew distant under its steady percussion.

Evelyn scrolled back through weeks of messages while Dot watched without judgment or hurry—a silent sentinel beside steaming mugs refilled twice over already today.

One photo snagged at her attention: Michael standing near an airport arrivals sign she remembered distinctly because she’d once painted Heathrow’s terminal ceiling for an old friend retiring there years ago—only this sign looked oddly generic upon closer inspection as if lifted straight from stock images online rather than snapped mid-journey by someone eager to cross oceans for love.

“Look here,” she murmured to Dot who leaned close enough for their shoulders to touch lightly above floral tablecloth faded almost white in spots now after decades’ worth of Sunday teas and spilled sugar bowls alike.

“That doesn’t seem right…” Dot frowned deeper lines into skin already mapped by laughter more than worry until recently.

“And listen.” Evelyn pulled up another voice note—a short one recorded late last night despite Michael saying earlier his phone battery was dead after his ‘emergency at border control.’ His tone was gentle but unfamiliar somehow; clipped vowels that didn’t quite match those afternoon calls filled with honey-thick endearments.

“What if none of it is true?” Her own voice surprised her—a blend of fear and anger hardening around hope like shell around softest flesh.

Dot reached across tablecloth worn smooth as sea glass between them.”Then we find out together.”

Outside clouds pressed lower until sky met sea in seamless sheet of pewter light; inside Evelyn felt something shift—not yet relief nor devastation but clarity cold as wind off winter waves.

Her phone vibrated once more—a video call request blinking insistently blue against all that grayness around them.

Without waiting for courage or permission—for herself or anyone else—Evelyn swiped answer with trembling thumb as Dot drew close by her side.

Onscreen Michael smiled warmly…but behind him flashed glimpses not of London nor Berlin but anonymous cityscape dotted neon-bright signage neither woman recognized—a truth flickering at edges too sharp now to ignore.

Evelyn steadied herself against both table edge and friend’s hand—and finally asked aloud:

“Where are you really calling from?”

CHAPTER 10: Salt Air and Empty Rooms

A cold wind whipped through the narrow lane as Evelyn Harper bent to retrieve her post from the iron box beside her gate. She glanced at the sky—gulls traced restless spirals under a bank of low, pewter clouds, and salt stung her nose with each breath. The house behind her hunched against the wind, its clapboards flaking another season’s paint. Letters in hand, she nudged open the picket gate, boots crunching on gravel slick with last night’s rain.

Inside, warmth waited—a kettle left humming on the stove and sunlight pressing through lace curtains onto uneven floorboards. Still, an emptiness seemed to linger in every room: rooms too quiet for comfort; only the faint tick of a clock and her own footfalls breaking the hush. She set down the letters atop a stack of watercolor sketches—unfinished studies of hydrangeas gone to seed—and peeled off damp gloves.

On the kitchen table lay her phone, screen lit with a notification: Michael Ashford (Online Now).

She hovered there, heart thumping faster than it should for a message alert. The letters forgotten, Evelyn thumbed open WhatsApp. His latest text blinked up:

*My darling Evie,*

*I miss you so much today. I think about your voice when I wake up here—it makes this grey city brighter.*

*Soon I’ll be holding you close by that wild Atlantic sea you love.*

She pressed a palm to her chest, steadying herself against hope’s old ache. She typed back:

*You’d better bring your thickest coat—this morning nearly blew me into next week!*

Almost instantly:

*Anything for you… though I suspect my arms will be warmer than any coat.*

Evelyn flushed despite herself. At seventy-three she felt absurdly girlish sometimes—her daughter Claire would roll her eyes if she could see these exchanges—but Michael’s messages kindled something long dormant in her: anticipation.

The kettle whistled sharply. She poured tea into a chipped mug painted with violets, stirring honey until it melted smooth as silk.

Her living room was crowded with small comforts—a knitted throw draped over an armchair; stacks of library books; framed photographs faded by time and sun. On one side table sat a wooden box filled with old letters tied in ribbon—the sort no one sent anymore.

She balanced tea and phone on the tray and settled herself by the window where condensation fogged glass above blooming pots of paperwhites.

Michael’s little profile photo glowed—a grainy image of him smiling somewhere sunlit, his silver hair tousled by wind like hers had been out at the mailbox.

He wrote again:

*I have some news… but not all good this time.*

Evelyn paused mid-sip.

*What is it?*

There was a longer delay now; three blinking dots as he typed and erased.

Finally:

*It’s all going wrong at once here.*

*My flight was canceled again because of bureaucratic nonsense—they say my passport is flagged due to “irregularities.” I’m so sorry love—I wanted nothing more than to finally meet you this week.*

She stared at those words until they blurred into themselves. Her first instinct was disappointment—a sudden hollowness opening inside—but then came concern: what did he mean? What ‘irregularities’? He’d mentioned delays before but never quite like this.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she answered:

*Oh no… Michael are you alright? Can’t you talk to someone at your embassy?*

Another pause—longer this time—and she imagined him pacing some distant apartment overlooking neon-lit rooftops far from here.

His reply arrived:

*Tried everything but they want fees upfront just to review my documents.*

*(And it’s not cheap.) All my funds are tied up after Mum’s hospital bills… if only I could get help from someone trustworthy until things clear up.*

Beneath his words Evelyn caught hints of strain she hadn’t noticed before—a rawness leaking through his practiced charm.

She set down her cup too hard; tea sloshed onto its saucer unnoticed as memory pressed close: John coughing in their bed years ago—the helplessness when love collided with red tape and money worries even then. How quickly loneliness returned after loss; how sweet Michael’s attention had been since last autumn when their calls began lighting up empty evenings…

A knock startled her from reverie—a brisk rapping at the front door that rattled hinges loose in their sockets.

Dot Atwell poked her head round without waiting for invitation—her cheeks flushed pink above scarf and battered wax jacket. “Evie! You look miles away.”

“Dot.” Evelyn summoned a smile as Dot stomped snowmelt from boots onto the mat. “Come in—you’ll catch your death.”

“I brought crullers,” Dot announced triumphantly, brandishing a white bakery bag dusted with sugar grease spots. “Fresh—they were still warm when Ruth boxed them up.”

“That woman is single-handedly keeping us all well-padded,” Evelyn said gratefully as Dot bustled past into the kitchen like she owned it (which wasn’t far off). The aroma followed them: fried dough laced with nutmeg and cinnamon filling corners untouched by loneliness or regret—for now anyway.

“Got any news?” Dot asked over clinking mugs while pouring herself tea without waiting for permission or answer.

Evelyn hesitated—not wanting to mention Michael’s new troubles just yet—but Dot watched too closely not to notice hesitation.

“Everything alright?” Dot pressed gently, eyes narrowing beneath wiry brows still dark despite age (“hair dye,” Dot always winked). “You seem… jumpy.”

Evelyn forced another smile around half-truths that stuck in her throat like stale bread. “Just tired maybe,” she managed lightly enough that Dot let it slide—for now—and filled silence with tales from church committee squabbles (“if Edna brings those cheese straws one more Sunday I’ll scream”) until laughter loosened something knotted inside Evelyn’s chest.

When Dot left an hour later—cruller crumbs trailing behind—Evelyn gathered stray napkins and rinsed plates under hot water humming radio static between weather reports (“High tide warnings tonight along coastal roads”). Even mundane tasks felt oddly insubstantial—as though life itself might dissolve if she stopped moving long enough.

Phone buzzed again on countertop:

*A favor only if you’re able,* Michael wrote.

*I hate asking—I truly do—but if there’s any way you could wire even part of these fees (just short-term) I’ll pay back tenfold once we’re together.*

He included details this time—a Western Union account number scribbled out below.

Evelyn read his message three times before replying:

*Let me see what I can do.*

Then sat heavily at kitchen table while dusk crept across wallpaper faded pale blue by years of winter storms.

Outside gulls screamed above slate roofs; inside shadows pooled beneath baseboards.

She tried picturing Michael standing beside her kettle or laughing on windy beaches—tried conjuring warmth from pixels—but doubt shivered through each attempt.

Still… tomorrow perhaps things would right themselves; perhaps passports would clear or flights resume or love prove sturdier than bureaucracy.

But tonight salt air seeped through every crack—even locked doors couldn’t keep out longing—or fear.

From down below came another rattle—the mail slot clattering open again.

A thin envelope slipped onto worn floorboards bearing no return address.

Evelyn stared at it across gathering gloom.

For once she hesitated before reaching out—

and wondered who else might be watching,

waiting,

on nights like these

where promises drift ashore

and vanish among empty rooms.

CHAPTER 11: Brushstrokes Across the Ocean

A brittle wind rattled the windowpane, making Evelyn glance up from her easel. The sea beyond was a stretch of pewter, flecked with whitecaps and drifting gulls. Her paintbrush hovered midair, bristles loaded with cerulean blue—she hesitated, uncertain where to lay the next stroke on the canvas. The unfinished painting before her—two hands reaching across a divide of stormy water—refused to resolve itself.

Her phone buzzed atop a stack of unopened mail. She wiped her fingers on an old handkerchief and picked it up, expecting perhaps Dot or Claire. Instead: Michael’s face appeared in the WhatsApp preview, smiling as always, eyes crinkling at some private joke. Her chest fluttered.

She thumbed open the message.

Michael: Good morning my darling Evie! How is my favorite artist today? I woke thinking of your garden by the sea… I can almost smell those hydrangeas you told me about.

She smiled despite herself, glancing out at the battered bushes beyond her fence—petals clinging for dear life in the bluster. He remembered such small details; she pictured him typing from his hotel room somewhere in Lisbon or Madrid (his stories changed so often), sunlight streaming through tall windows onto rumpled sheets.

Evelyn: Good afternoon here, Mr. Jetsetter! It’s wild and windy—I half expect to see ships wrecking on the rocks like in old stories. Are you still planning to come this weekend?

The cursor blinked as he typed.

Michael: Of course! Nothing could keep me away now—not even Atlantic storms 🙂 Packing as we speak. Only trouble is…

A pause stretched long enough that she set down her phone and dabbed cerulean into a ribbon of foam along one painted knuckle.

Ping.

Michael: There’s been a hitch with my visa extension—they say I need to pay an extra processing fee or risk missing my flight Friday 🙁 It’s outrageous! I’m so embarrassed even telling you this…

He followed with another message—a digital sigh:

Michael: After all our plans… I feel foolish asking for help again but they want it wired quickly or else they’ll cancel everything. Can you believe it?

Evelyn pressed paint into canvas until blue bled over grey; lines blurred beneath her trembling hand.

Her kettle whistled from the kitchen, shrill and insistent—a lifeline yanking her back to earth. She set down brush and palette, shuffled over worn linoleum tiles to turn off the stove. Steam curled past floral curtains as she poured hot water over a waiting tea bag—Earl Grey today—and tried not to look at the envelope marked “Final Notice” tucked behind a chipped ceramic sugar bowl.

She carried mug and phone back to her chair by the window—the one Arthur used for reading crossword clues aloud while seagulls screamed outside—and settled herself amid cushions faded by years of sun and salt air.

The messages kept coming:

Michael: If it’s too much trouble please just say—you’ve already done more than anyone ever has for me.

Michael: I don’t want you uncomfortable.

Michael: But if there is any way… just this once? I promise this is truly final hurdle before we can finally be together.

Her finger hovered above reply.

The cottage ticked around her—the slow pulse of pipes settling after heat flickered off; distant drone of Dot’s mower next door; gulls squabbling over crusts left near Ruth Ellery’s stoop across the lane. All so normal it seemed absurd that love—or something like it—could be happening inside these four walls via blinking pixels from half a world away.

She closed her eyes and let Michael’s words replay in memory—their late-night conversations about art (“You make loneliness sound beautiful,” he’d said); his story about losing his wife (“Grief is colorless until someone brings light”); their shared dreams of walking windswept beaches together come springtime (“We’ll find driftwood hearts”). Each recollection warmed some fragile part inside her that had gone cold since Arthur died two winters ago.

But then came Claire’s voice—sharp-edged concern echoing from last week:

“Mum, how do you know who this man really is? You barely video call him! There are scams everywhere these days.”

And Dot yesterday at church coffee hour:

“Evie love, you’re distracted lately—you seem tired.” A gentle touch on Evelyn’s wrist, searching eyes that saw too much.

She sipped tea gone lukewarm and stared at Michael’s latest plea until letters blurred together—a tangle of guilt and longing neither paint nor poetry could untangle now.

With careful motions she opened her laptop on its crocheted mat—the keys sticky with age—and logged into online banking. As she scrolled through recent transactions (the wire transfer last month still sitting uneasily among grocery bills), nerves flickered under skin like static electricity before a storm breaks.

Wasn’t he supposed to repay what she’d sent for hospital fees? Hadn’t he sworn he’d keep every receipt? But when she’d asked last time he’d sounded hurt—so wounded she’d apologized first—

A new email pinged into focus from “International Travel Services”—subject line urgent, addressed directly to Mrs Evelyn Harper regarding verification for beneficiary M.Ashford overseas payment clearance fee (£1,200). Official enough on first glance but riddled with odd phrasing upon rereading: Dear Esteemed Madam…

Her heart thudded low in her chest as she clicked open another tab out of habit—a group chat with Dot titled “Ladies Who Lunch.” Messages scrolled upward: Ruth sharing photos from library class (“Don’t click unknown links!” written on whiteboard), Dot inviting everyone for lemon drizzle cake tomorrow afternoon if weather cleared up—

Evelyn hovered between tabs like someone watching tides rush against stubborn sandcastles built too close to surfline—knowing collapse was inevitable but unable yet to move farther inland toward safety or sense.

Her phone rang—a real call this time—and she startled so badly Earl Grey sloshed over knuckles onto skirt fabric already stippled with paint smudges.

Dot’s voice crackled through speakerphone:

“Evie? Just wanted to check if you’re coming round tomorrow—I’ve got new jigsaw puzzles out if rain keeps us in.”

“I—I think so,” Evelyn managed quietly, staring hard at Michael’s unread messages stacking up again above banking notifications flashing red warnings about ‘unusual account activity.’

“You alright?” Dot pressed gently after silence lingered too long between them. “You sound far away.”

“I’m just finishing something,” Evelyn said automatically—but not quite lying; finishing something felt truer than anything else right now though she couldn’t have named what exactly was ending or beginning inside herself tonight—

Dot let quiet fill space for several beats before adding softly,

“Well if there’s anything troubling you… Or if you need help sorting computers again—you know where I am.”

Evelyn promised yes yes soon thank you darling then hung up before tears could slip free; wiped hands dry on apron hem instead while outside dusk thickened seawards and wind leaned harder against thin glass panes separating cottage warmth from gathering dark beyond cliffs below town road—

Back at easel she tried painting once more but brush stuttered mid-stroke—the reaching hands becoming smudges rather than graspable forms—and frustration rose sharp enough that she nearly threw palette across room except Arthur would have tutted (“Not your style Evie girl—you’re gentler than that”)—

When finally courage returned enough for reply (though less bravely than she’d hoped) Evelyn tapped out:

I understand Michael—it must be difficult traveling alone like this especially nowadays… Let me see what I can manage but please promise me no more surprises after this? My heart can’t take many more hurdles…

His answer came almost immediately:

You are an angel Evie—I swear nothing will ever come between us again after this ordeal ends!

He sent a photograph—a passport page stamped hurriedly beside boarding pass stub (edges fuzzy as though copied secondhand). Something looked wrong about his signature but maybe that was just fatigue clouding judgment after sleepless nights worrying whether hope itself wasn’t simply another trickster wearing kind faces online—

Outside headlights swept briefly across lace curtains as Ruth Ellery trudged home late from library shift carrying plastic carrier bag swinging heavy with unsold paperbacks no one checked out anymore since lockdown started months ago—

Through window glass Evelyn caught sight of Ruth pausing beneath lamplight near mailbox; shoulders hunched against wind yet posture stubbornly upright all same—as though refusing surrender even when battered daily by elements both human-made and natural alike—

Impulse struck unexpected strong within Evelyn then—to go join Ruth tomorrow instead of hiding here tangled in wires both literal and emotional; maybe listen more closely when others warned danger sometimes dressed itself prettily as romance—

Still trembling slightly she powered off laptop without sending bank transfer yet—let kettle reboil itself while night deepened around cottage corners unlit save by glow leaking soft gold through kitchen doorway into front hall where boots waited ready beside umbrella stand should morning bring rain or revelation first—

Above all else tonight one fact persisted stubbornly clear beneath ache twisting inside ribs: whatever happened next would demand brushstrokes braver than any portrait painted thus far—even if colors ran wild across oceans no map could ever fully chart.

Across town—in shadows behind drawn blinds—a stranger watched transaction logs update on cracked screen lit blue-white by neon glow outside foreign window; Mama Kemi hissed instructions sharp beside him in dialect David barely understood anymore but dared not ignore—not when consequences hung heavier than promises owed strangers whose trust arrived gift-wrapped inside loneliness desperate enough sometimes even angels failed their own best intentions.

CHAPTER 12: Chapter 3: The Story Continues

Evelyn’s thumb hovered over the blue “send” button, her hand trembling in the watery light that filtered through the kitchen window. Outside, gulls wheeled against a pewter sky; inside, she could smell burnt toast and the faint tang of turpentine from yesterday’s unfinished watercolor. Her phone screen glowed with Michael’s last message: _I’m at Heathrow but they won’t let me board without paying these new visa fees, darling. I’m mortified to ask again…_

She pressed her knuckle to her lips and stared out past the sink, watching rain streak down glass mottled with old salt spray. In the garden, wind bent the hydrangeas nearly double. Evelyn tried to imagine him there—Michael, tall and silver-haired as he appeared on their video calls—shouldering his battered suitcase up her front walk while Dot peeked through her curtains next door.

But it wouldn’t be today. Not unless she sent another £1,200.

Her teacup rattled as she set it down too hard beside her laptop. She’d already transferred money twice this month: once for a supposed lost wallet in Madrid (“I know you must think me an utter fool!” he’d typed, punctuated by laughing emojis), then again when his bank account was “temporarily frozen.” Each time, guilt nibbled at her—but hope gnawed deeper.

The kettle whistled shrilly behind her thoughts. Evelyn poured hot water over a bag of Earl Grey and watched pale swirls rise in the cup. She remembered how Michael had joked about English tea being “the only thing keeping me alive in this airport hell,” and felt herself soften at the memory of his voice—warm even through tinny speakers.

A ping sounded from her laptop: another message blinking on WhatsApp.

_Darling? Are you there? The agent says if I don’t settle it within an hour I’ll have to wait days for another flight… Please tell me you’re okay._

She wiped condensation off the screen with a sleeve gone shiny at the elbow. Her finger tapped out a reply before she could reason herself out of it:

_I’m here love. Just sorting things now._

She hesitated before adding:

_Are you sure this is right? It seems such a lot for just paperwork._

His response came fast, almost frantic:

_Believe me I wish it were different! Brexit has made everything impossible overnight—they’re charging everyone extra who isn’t EU or UK-based now (even though my papers are all correct). Can explain more when I see you… Please trust me Evie._

The nickname curled around her heart like smoke.

Evelyn closed her eyes against sudden tears and reached for her bank card where it lay under a coil-bound sketchbook, speckled with dried paint. As she typed in numbers—slowly so as not to make mistakes—a sharp knock startled her upright.

“Evie?” Dot’s voice called through the door frame, muffled by rain and age-old wood.

“I’m coming!” Evelyn called back quickly—too quickly—and snapped shut both laptop and wallet as if caught mid-crime.

Dot appeared moments later in galoshes and an oilskin coat dotted with raindrops like sequins. She carried a paper bag bulging with scones from Pritchard’s bakery; their lemony scent filled up Evelyn’s kitchen along with Dot’s presence—solid, practical, uninvited but never unwelcome.

“You look peaky,” Dot said by way of greeting as she set down the bag between stacks of unopened mail and receipts for online transfers that Evelyn swept hastily beneath a gardening magazine.

“It’s just this weather.” Evelyn forced brightness into her tone as she poured two mugs of tea—one stronger than usual for herself.

Dot eyed her over steamed glasses frames while peeling off damp gloves one finger at a time. “You’ve been hiding away more than usual lately.”

Evelyn busied herself slicing butter onto split scones to avoid those blue eyes that missed nothing after fifty years of friendship. “I’ve been painting again,” she lied lightly. “Trying to get something done before Claire visits next week.”

“Claire coming? That’ll be nice.” But Dot didn’t sound convinced—or distracted—from whatever hunch had brought her across two lawns in pouring rain.

For several minutes they ate quietly except for clinks of cutlery and distant thunder rolling inland from sea.

Finally Dot spoke again: “You hear about Ruth Ellery? Someone tried scamming money off her online last year.”

Evelyn froze mid-bite; jam slid from scone onto plate in a sticky red drop.

“She told me all about it this morning at Pritchard’s,” Dot continued gently but insistently, watching for reaction. “Said he pretended to be some army fellow stuck overseas needing help getting home.” A pause heavy enough to fill both cups three times over hung between them before Dot added softly: “Sound familiar?”

Heat rose up Evelyn’s neck despite cold drafts curling round floorboards beneath their feet.”That sort of thing happens everywhere these days,” she said too quickly—the words brittle as sea glass ground small by waves.”People take advantage.”

Dot squeezed lemon into tea until rind twisted white.”Just…be careful,” she said finally.”You know where I am if ever you need help sorting anything.”

Rain hammered harder on slate roof tiles above them.Evelyn chewed slowly,savouring tartness that masked bitterness blooming behind each swallow.She wanted nothing more than solitude—to check messages,to send what Michael needed—to believe none of this caution applied to _her_.Her Michael was different.Her loneliness was special,surely visible even on grainy webcam feeds.Hadn’t he said so himself?

Later,in blessed quiet after Dot left,Evelyn padded upstairs clutching phone tight enough to whiten knuckles.She sat amid piles of folded laundry overlooking grey waves churning below cliffs.Rain ran channels down windowglass,the world blurred beyond reach.She opened WhatsApp:

_Michael Ashford_: Any news darling?

_Evie Harper_: Sorry—I got interrupted.But it’s sorted.The transfer should clear soon.

_Michael Ashford_: You’re saving my life.I swear I’ll pay you back every penny.I’m so close Evie.Just hold on one more day.You mean everything to me.Let’s start our real life together tomorrow.Promise._

A sob threatened but did not escape.She typed simply:

_Love you._

He replied instantly:

_Love you more than words can say.I’ll call soon.My whole heart is yours._

His avatar—a blurry photo cropped from someone else’s memories—smiled up at her.Evelyn blinked hard,willing herself not to wonder why hope tasted so much like fear tonight.And downstairs,in tangled receipts beneath magazines,a bank alert chimed quietly,muffled by thunder outside.But Evelyn stayed rooted where dreams still seemed possible,a single step away from reality crashing through lace-curtained calm.

The storm showed no sign of breaking; neither did she.Not yet.A notification pulsed on-screen:”Unusual activity detected on your account.Please contact your branch immediately.”

CHAPTER 13: The Art of Longing

The wind rattled the loose pane in Evelyn’s studio window, a hollow sound that carried straight through to her bones. She pressed one hand flat against the glass, feeling its faint tremor. The sea beyond was restless—choppy pewter under a sky thick with unspent rain. For days now, the horizon seemed to have slipped further away, as if even that distant line had grown uncertain.

Evelyn let the curtain fall back and turned to her easel. On the canvas—a half-finished watercolor of hydrangeas spilling over a rusted fence—her brushstrokes stopped just short of coherence. The colors bled into each other: blue into purple, purple into an accidental bruise.

She sat down on her old wooden stool and picked up her phone from the paint-stained table beside her tea mug. Six unread messages from Michael blinked across the screen. Her thumb hovered above them; she hesitated, then set the phone face-down.

A fly droned near the ceiling light where cobwebs gathered in lazy spirals. She could smell turpentine and yesterday’s toast mingling in the air, familiar as breath. Evelyn tried to focus on her painting—the way she used to lose herself for hours—but today every stroke felt self-conscious, like drawing under watchful eyes.

She remembered Michael’s voice on their last call: soft-edged with sleep or sadness or some blend of both.

“Do you ever feel like you’re waiting your whole life for something?” he’d asked her, his accent lilting around each word.

“I used to,” she’d replied, not quite meeting his gaze on the tiny screen. “Now I think I’m just waiting for someone.”

He’d smiled at that—gentle, understanding—and promised again he would come soon.

Evelyn dipped her brush in water and watched pigment swirl into cloudy ribbons before settling at the bottom of the jar. She glanced toward her calendar: Wednesday circled twice in red marker—Michael’s arrival day. Or it should have been, before yesterday’s message:

Dearest Evie,

I am so sorry darling—I’ve run into another hurdle at immigration… they say my papers are out of order because my middle name is missing on one form! Can you imagine? Bureaucracy is hell here… If only I had a local attorney but they want payment upfront (of course). Please don’t worry—I’ll sort this! But it’s another delay…

All my love,

M

Her heart had sunk when she read it last night; even now disappointment lingered like salt on skin after swimming too long in cold water.

A knock at the back door startled her upright—a quick rap-rap-rap followed by Dot’s voice muffled through weathered wood: “Evie? You home?”

Evelyn wiped paint from her fingers onto an old rag and shuffled down the hallway past framed photographs—the wedding portrait near faded to sepia; Claire as a gap-toothed child clutching a plastic bucket full of shells; Frank grinning behind his first catch of striped bass.

Dot stood bundled against drizzle in a yellow slicker flecked with flour dust—her bakery uniform beneath peeking out at collar and cuffs.

“I brought you almond croissants,” Dot said by way of greeting, lifting a paper bag between gloved hands. “Fresh out of Ruth’s oven.”

“Oh—you spoil me.” Evelyn managed a smile but couldn’t quite meet Dot’s eyes as she took the bag inside and set it on the counter beside unpaid bills and an unopened letter from Claire.

Dot peeled off damp gloves and draped them over a radiator pipe. “You working on anything new?” Her glance flickered toward Evelyn’s paint-splattered smock and stained fingertips.

“A bit,” Evelyn answered lightly. “Just flowers.”

They settled at Evelyn’s kitchen table amid chipped mugs and cinnamon sugar scattered across linoleum like sand after high tide. Dot tore open a croissant with decisive fingers while Evelyn nibbled hers more slowly than usual—each bite sticky-sweet but oddly tasteless.

“So…” Dot began after swallowing, fixing Evelyn with that look—half gentle curiosity, half stubborn concern only lifelong friends can manage without offense—”how are things with your gentleman friend?”

Evelyn forced herself not to flinch at ‘gentleman friend.’ A blush crept up beneath her cheekbones anyway.

“He says he’ll be here soon,” she heard herself say quietly—a practiced phrase by now—and reached for her teacup though it was empty.

Dot made a noncommittal hum in response but didn’t press further right away; instead she stared out toward Evelyn’s small garden where gulls picked through yesterday’s bread crusts left atop mossy stones.

After a moment Dot said softly: “Ruth told me about those scams going around again… poor Mrs. Bennett lost almost five grand last year thinking some soldier overseas needed help getting home.”

Evelyn bristled despite herself—a strange wave of protectiveness rising fast as shame behind it. “Michael isn’t like that,” she said quickly, sharper than intended. “We video chat every day.”

Dot nodded slowly but didn’t look convinced—or maybe just careful not to provoke another defense from someone already worn thin by hope or doubt or both at once.

“Of course,” Dot murmured finally, patting Evelyn’s hand atop chipped Formica with rough baker’s palms still warm from kneading dough all morning. “Just wanted you safe is all.”

Silence stretched between them until rain tapped harder against windowsill tin pans stacked above the sink—a comfortingly domestic rhythm cutting through awkwardness like butter through pastry layers gone flaky with age.

When Dot left—with promises to drop off soup later if Ruth made extra leek-and-potato—Evelyn wandered back upstairs holding what remained of her croissant wrapped carefully in wax paper though she knew already she wouldn’t finish it later either.

Her phone buzzed again atop messy sheets beside an untouched library book about Monet—it was Michael this time calling rather than texting:

Evie pick up please I need you

She answered before fear could freeze her thumb entirely; Michael appeared onscreen looking tired beneath harsh fluorescent light—a hospital corridor maybe? Or some echoing lobby?

“Darling—I’m so sorry,” he began immediately, voice breaking up amid digital static but urgent enough beneath glitches that guilt stabbed sharp along Evelyn’s ribs nonetheless—

“They won’t release my luggage unless I pay these outrageous storage fees—they say my passport will be confiscated otherwise! I’m begging you Evie—I know how much faith you’ve shown me—I swear I’ll repay every penny when we’re together…”

His words tumbled over themselves as images flickered behind him: indistinct shapes moving past glass doors; snatches of unfamiliar signage splashed red-and-white across walls far colder than any place she’d ever known him to describe before now—

“How much do you need?” Her own voice sounded smaller than expected—as if coming not from inside her own chest but whispered along telephone wires strung halfway round earth’s curve—

He named an amount larger than before—not impossible but weighty enough that panic clawed briefly up through routine calculation (“I can transfer first thing tomorrow morning”).

Michael thanked her profusely then broke off mid-sentence as someone shouted nearby—in French perhaps? Or Portuguese? Or just bad audio twisting vowels until nothing sounded real anymore—

The call ended abruptly leaving only silence heavy enough to make floorboards creak beneath stillness alone—

Evelyn stared blankly at reflected lamplight caught along windowpane cracks—the world outside blurred by rain yet somehow clearer than anything glowing within palm-sized screens now slick beneath trembling fingertips—

She closed every app one by one until only darkness remained—then stood so suddenly that tea sloshed onto carpet unheeded below—

Downstairs again—the unfinished hydrangeas waited patiently atop their easel blooms melting gently into shadow-blue gloom;

For once she did not reach for brushes or paint or even fresh water—instead Evelyn found herself wandering room to room searching for something solid among memories brittle as dried petals tucked between pages never meant for anyone else’s reading;

Somewhere outside gulls screamed above breakers unseen past battered hedges,

Inside,

Her longing pressed close as fog against glass,

And somewhere deep within

a single question began gnawing its way toward daylight:

What if none of this is true?

And what would become of me if it isn’t?

CHAPTER 14: Storm Signals

Wind battered the cottage all night, a ceaseless shudder in the walls and windowpanes. Evelyn woke to its lingering echo, the sky outside a pale, bruised gray. She lingered in bed longer than usual, cocooned under her quilt, watching watery light seep through lace curtains. Somewhere beyond the glass, gulls screamed over the surf—her only company now that she’d silenced her phone overnight.

She rose stiffly, knees protesting as she shuffled toward the kitchen. The kettle whined as she filled it from the tap; her hands shook just enough to spill droplets on the counter’s worn Formica. While it boiled, Evelyn stood with one palm flat against the cool sink edge and looked out at her narrow strip of garden. Hydrangeas bent under wind and salt spray; petals littered the paving stones like confetti after a party.

Her phone buzzed twice on the table behind her: WhatsApp notifications—Michael’s picture flashing up beside his latest message. Evelyn hesitated before picking it up.

**Michael:** *My darling Evie… there’s trouble at border control. They won’t let me through without paying extra fees for my documents.*

She read it twice, lips pursing tighter each time. He’d promised he was finally coming—she’d even vacuumed yesterday and set aside clean towels in anticipation—and now this new hurdle.

The kettle clicked off with a hollow snap. Evelyn poured water over an old teabag in her favorite mug—the blue one with faded gold trim—watching steam curl upward as if divining answers from vapor.

Another message arrived:

**Michael:** *I hate asking you again but I’m trapped here, love. I can’t get out unless I pay them today or they’ll send me back.*

She took her tea to the sitting room where sunlight crept across framed photographs on every surface: Peter beaming behind his fishing rod; Claire as a child covered in sand; herself at twenty-four holding Dot’s hand at their first art show. For months these memories had felt less sharp—smoothed by Michael’s voice on late-night calls, his gentle teasing about English weather and recipes he wanted to cook for her.

Now they pressed close again: ghosts crowding into daylight spaces she’d tried to fill with hope.

Evelyn scrolled back through their chat history, searching for reassurance—a photo of Michael beside some anonymous airport gate (blurred), a video call last week where he blew kisses but kept flickering in and out of frame (“WiFi is rubbish here!”). She noticed how often he avoided direct questions about details—the airline name, his hotel address—always apologizing, always promising clarity tomorrow.

Her chest tightened around each new excuse.

The clock chimed nine from its spot above the mantelpiece—a gift from Dot years ago when Peter was still alive—and Evelyn startled at how late it had grown already. She should have walked down to Mrs. O’Neil’s bakery for bread by now; instead she stared at another incoming text:

**Michael:** *Please Evie… I know it’s hard but can you help? Just £2,500 more will see me safely through.*

Two thousand five hundred pounds—for “emergencies.” The number made her vision blur momentarily before shame chased it away: hadn’t she told herself last time would be final? Hadn’t Claire warned her not two weeks ago during that awkward Sunday call?

She sipped lukewarm tea and dialed Dot instead—her thumb hovering over “call” while doubt gnawed inside her ribcage—but hung up before it rang once. Dot would hear something strange in her voice straight away.

Instead Evelyn opened her banking app with hesitant fingers. Password entered wrong twice—the letters trembling beneath them—before access bloomed onto cold blue screens filled with figures too small for comfort since Michael started needing “help.”

A notification blinked red: **Unusual activity detected – Contact your bank immediately**.

Evelyn closed out quickly as if afraid someone might see over her shoulder though no one else was there except dust motes drifting gold above old carpet fibers.

Rain splattered against glass as she made herself move—fetching cardigan from its hook by habit—and ventured onto the porch just long enough to feel brine-laced wind slap color into cheeks gone pallid indoors too long.

Down Rosehip Lane hydrangeas drooped heavy-headed along iron fences slick with drizzle; Dot’s house glimmered faintly three doors down but Evelyn couldn’t bring herself to visit yet—not until things made sense again inside her own muddled heart.

She walked instead toward town square past shuttered shops whose windows rattled against their frames—a world shrinking inward since lockdowns began—with only Ruth Ellery visible ahead beneath an oversized umbrella patterned like autumn leaves.

Ruth paused outside Becker’s Pharmacy fumbling keys into a bulging bag before looking up at Evelyn with tired warmth behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“Morning,” Ruth called softly above rain gusts. “You look like you could use shelter more than I do.”

They ducked beneath Becker’s awning together while traffic hissed past puddles nearby—a rare intimacy forming between two women who usually traded nothing deeper than pleasantries about weather or aches these days.

Evelyn forced brightness into tone: “How are you keeping busy?”

“Oh… teaching those internet safety classes still.” Ruth shrugged off rainwater dripping down sleeves. “Trying to keep folks from making my mistakes.”

Something tightened across Evelyn’s brow—not quite guilt nor relief but an uneasy kinship nonetheless—as Ruth continued quietly: “You ever get strange emails lately? Or messages online that seem too good to be true?”

Evelyn hesitated too long before answering; Ruth watched gently without pressing further so eventually she managed: “Sometimes people are lonely enough not to care if things sound right.”

Their silence stretched while raindrops drummed steady overhead until Ruth offered a folded pamphlet printed on cheap paper—the library logo crooked atop advice about passwords and fraud hotlines scrawled below cartoon lock icons.

“Maybe pass this along?” Ruth suggested kindly rather than accusingly then added low so only they could hear: “Don’t let shame make you hide.”

Evelyn pocketed leaflet without meeting eyes then excused herself quickly under pretense of needing milk from next door shop—even though fridge at home was half-full already—with heart hammering wild beneath sodden cardigan all way back up Rosehip Lane where seagulls screamed warnings overhead no one else seemed able—or willing—to hear yet.

*

In another city far removed from salt air or birdsong David Mensah hunched over battered laptop screen while Mama Kemi loomed behind him swathed head-to-toe in Ankara cloth bright enough to command attention even here among faded wallpaper and peeling linoleum tiles of their rented apartment kitchen.

“How much did you get this time?” Mama Kemi asked sharply voice cut-glass smooth despite exhaustion pooling under dark eyes lined deep by years spent calculating survival odds daily anew.

David didn’t answer fast enough so she leaned closer breath hot with urgency: “We need results! If police sniff around again we move—you understand?”

He nodded mutely scrolling through threads of pleading messages sent hours earlier—photos doctored for sympathy stories rehearsed until second nature—all blending together into background noise punctuated only by occasional pangs of conscience he smothered quick as embers snuffed beneath heel of necessity or pride or hunger never quite named aloud between them anymore.

*

Back home Evelyn sat cross-legged on living room rug surrounded by stacks of unopened mail bills piled high beside slippers never worn outdoors these days—all reminders life went on regardless whether hope showed up tonight or not wearing anyone’s name worth believing anymore.

Her phone vibrated again persistent insistent insidious:

**Michael:** *Are you there? Please Evie—I’m running out of time.*

Hands trembling harder now than morning she typed response slow letter-by-letter each word scraped raw against faith dwindling threadbare thin:

*Tell me what hospital you’re in.*

*Send me proof you’re really there.*

*Why does everything keep going wrong?*

Three dots flashed onscreen then stopped suddenly mid-reply leaving nothing but digital silence stretching wide between them while outside storm winds gathered force hurling salt rain hard enough against windowpanes that for one breathless moment Evelyn almost believed they might break entirely letting sea rush in uninvited swallowing everything left standing between truth and longing forever.

But somewhere distant church bells tolled noon clear above gale warning everyone within earshot change was coming soon whether any of them were ready or not—

And inside that pause hung all Evelyn dared hope—or fear—for what might come next when promises turned finally beyond repair toward ashes after all.

CHAPTER 15: Salt Air and Silent Evenings

The wind had been up all afternoon, sharp and restless, rattling the loose pane in Evelyn’s kitchen window. By evening it softened, settling into a persistent hush that pressed against the cottage like a palm. She stood at the sink with her hands submerged in dishwater gone tepid—tea-stained mugs, a knife slick with butter, the floral plate from Dot’s lemon cake lunch. The briny scent of salt drifted through a crack in the frame. Outside, gulls wheeled and shrieked above the empty sand.

She drained the sink slowly, watched bubbles collapse on themselves and slide away into darkness. She’d always liked evenings best—the hour between chores and sleep when she could sit by the front window and watch lights flicker on across town: Mrs. Larkin’s porch lamp next door; headlights sweeping along Marine Drive; lanterns strung over the bakery garden where college kids sometimes gathered with guitars. There was comfort in small routines and distant voices.

Now her own rooms seemed unnaturally quiet. The ticking of the mantel clock echoed too loud against plaster walls; every floorboard creak startled her out of thought.

She dried her hands on an old tea towel embroidered with bluebells—her mother’s handiwork—and set about tidying what little mess there was to tidy. A pair of reading glasses abandoned beside yesterday’s crossword, pencils rolled beneath a chair leg, two unopened envelopes stacked precisely by the phone charger: one bill, one charity plea. Her life reduced to paper trails and reminders.

In the living room she paused beside her easel—a sketch begun weeks ago but left unfinished: hydrangeas blown sideways by wind, petals rendered in chalky blues and smudged greys. She ran a thumb across their blurred outlines as if she might coax them back into bloom.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table: another WhatsApp notification—Group message from Ruth Ellery’s “Library Tech Savvy Seniors.” Evelyn glanced at it warily before letting it go unanswered.

She settled into her usual armchair beneath faded chenille throws. Night had fallen quickly; beyond lace curtains only darkness moved—sea black under cloud cover, porch light painting oblongs across rain-speckled glass.

The silence pressed close again until she almost welcomed Dot’s knock at half-past seven—a brisk rat-tat-tat that sounded more urgent than friendly tonight.

“Come in!” Evelyn called before remembering to stand up properly.

Dot entered already talking, umbrella dripping saltwater onto welcome mat. “Honestly Evie, you’d think summer would mean sunshine for once! I nearly lost my brolly twice coming round that corner.”

Evelyn forced a smile as she helped Dot out of her coat—a thick navy mac with fraying cuffs—and hung it beside hers on the peg behind the door. They fell easily into ritual: kettle filled (Dot fussing at how long it took), biscuits laid out (“Just one dear—I’ve got supper waiting”), chairs angled toward each other but not quite face-to-face.

“So,” Dot began after sipping carefully at scalding tea, “I saw Claire drive by this morning.” She cast a sidelong look over her mug—not quite accusatory but close enough to sting.

Evelyn feigned distraction arranging sugar packets. “She dropped off groceries last night,” she murmured. “Didn’t stay long.”

Dot made a sympathetic noise deep in her throat but didn’t press further—for now anyway.

Instead they spoke about small things: garden slugs decimating parsley pots; Ruth’s latest crusade against phishing emails at Tuesday library group (“Poor woman means well but frightens everyone half to death”); whether Mrs Larkin would ever fix those broken fence pickets or just let honeysuckle swallow them whole.

But beneath it all Evelyn felt something shift—the way Dot watched too closely when she fumbled over words or stared too long at nothing; how questions about weekend plans circled back around like birds returning to an empty nest.

“I suppose you’ve been keeping busy?” Dot asked finally as if testing thin ice.

“As much as anyone can,” Evelyn replied quietly. She looked down at her hands curled tight around chipped porcelain—the knuckles swollen these days unless warmed by washing up or holding tea for long minutes past comfort.

Dot set aside her cup with deliberate care and reached across for Evelyn’s wrist—not gripping so much as anchoring gently there between pulse points where skin was thin as parchment paper.

“You know you don’t have to say anything,” Dot said softly after several seconds passed unbroken except for wind rattling somewhere overhead. “But if you ever want to talk…”

Evelyn shook herself loose with practiced grace—smiling brighter than she felt—and changed subjects: recipes swapped for scones neither of them intended to bake; rumors about new tenants moving into number twelve (“Foreigners maybe? Or just someone come down from London?”).

By eight-thirty Dot stood again gathering scarf and umbrella together with reluctance written plain across her face—a line drawn hard between neighborly concern and intrusion unwanted yet impossible not to offer.

As soon as Dot left—a parting wave through misted glass—Evelyn locked both bolts on instinct though crime here rarely ran deeper than petty theft or misdelivered post these days.

Alone again she wandered restlessly from room to room touching familiar objects without seeing them: wedding photograph yellowed under cracked frame; Peter’s battered mug still holding his last packet of licorice allsorts (“For luck!” he used to say); shelves lined with art books annotated in cramped cursive no one else could read now he was gone.

On impulse Evelyn fetched her phone from its charger and scrolled absently through recent messages:

Michael Ashford

Last seen today 17:14

Goodnight my dearest Evie x

He hadn’t video-called since Monday afternoon—their chat truncated after only five minutes by claims of poor signal overseas—and tonight his texts were brief bordering on perfunctory:

Hope your day was gentle

Miss you always

Something brittle twisted inside her chest—not pain exactly but an ache edged sharp by memory: Michael laughing softly about some mishap at customs (“Only me! Always trouble…”), promising soon-soon-soon he’d book his ticket once funds cleared from his late wife’s estate abroad…

So many promises folded neatly like handkerchiefs never taken out for use or show. So many stories built threadbare thin under scrutiny—but wasn’t everyone entitled their secrets?

Her thumb hovered over call button then retreated uncertainly before setting phone aside once more—screen glowing pale green before fading away altogether under idle touch.

The house ticked around her—pipes settling behind plaster; seagulls wailing far downshore where tide dragged weed against breakwall stones—and still sleep would not come near no matter how tightly she wrapped herself in woolen blankets stitched decades ago during better winters than this one promised to be now loneliness crept bone-deep despite best efforts otherwise…

Later when moonlight silvered everything cheap-white through curtain lace Evelyn found herself standing barefoot in kitchen again pouring tap water into chipped enamel jug simply because movement meant postponing emptiness awhile longer—

Tomorrow perhaps Claire would call properly instead of texting reminders clipped short by work meetings—

Tomorrow perhaps Michael would ring instead of writing bland platitudes strung together like beads without color—

Or tomorrow everything might unravel completely because beneath peaceable surfaces cracks widened daily no matter how gently patched over… 

A shadow drifted past window-glass outside—just a gull probably hunting scraps among bins tipped sideways by wind—but somehow tonight even that seemed portentous:

Somewhere far away phones rang unanswered while faces blurred pixel-bright behind screens vanished forever without warning—

And here inside salt air thickened until breathing hurt,

and silent evenings stretched endless ahead,

threatening finally

to break open what little remained unspoken between hope and truth yet unmet.

CHAPTER 16: Messages Across Oceans

The kettle’s whistle cut through the hush, shrill and insistent, but Evelyn barely registered it. Her hand hovered over her phone on the kitchen table, thumb tracing the edge of the cracked case. Outside, a filmy morning mist clung to the windows; beyond them, gulls wheeled above tidal flats scoured by a restless wind. Evelyn let the kettle scream until it fell silent, spent.

She’d been awake for hours—had drifted in and out of uneasy sleep before dawn, haunted by dreams she couldn’t quite remember. Now she watched as her WhatsApp screen glowed with Michael’s name at the top: green dot burning with impossible promise.

*Good morning, darling*, his last message read. *I hope you slept well? Missing you so much today.*

Evelyn blinked back hot pricks behind her eyes. She set down her phone and poured water into a chipped blue mug—the one with faded violets swirling up its sides. The tea bag bobbed and bled color; she pressed it against the cup’s rim with an impatient spoon.

There had been no video call last night after all—just apologies about poor WiFi at his hotel in Casablanca (was it Casablanca now? Or Lisbon? His itinerary was always shifting). He’d sent two photos: one of an anonymous cityscape at sunset, glass towers lit gold; another of his hand holding a room key stamped with numbers she couldn’t make out.

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that somewhere across oceans he was thinking of her—that those hands had once cradled hers through pixelated screens late into lonely nights.

Her own hands trembled now as she carried tea to her tiny sitting room. The cottage still smelled faintly of turpentine from yesterday’s painting—a half-finished seascape leaned against the mantelpiece beside last year’s Christmas card from Dot.

The iPad lay open on her lap when she sat down, knees stiff beneath fleecy tartan pajamas. She opened their chat again and typed:

*Morning my love! Hope you’re safe today. Did you get any rest? I miss your voice.*

Three dots pulsed almost immediately—then stopped.

Nothing more came through.

A cold trickle ran down Evelyn’s spine as minutes crawled past in silence broken only by distant surf and a rattling pane above the sink.

She tried not to think about money: about how easily trust had unlocked accounts meant for rainy days or Claire’s grandchildren—transfers justified by new airline fees or sudden border closures or lost wallets (“it happens so often here,” Michael had said; “the world is different outside England”). She’d told herself it was temporary—that soon he would be here, standing on her doorstep in that battered navy jacket from his profile picture.

A knock startled her so badly she nearly dropped her tea.

Dot stood bundled in an olive coat patched at both elbows—a pink scarf wound haphazardly around flyaway hair—and peered through the glass like an anxious bird.

“Evelyn?” Her voice carried even before Evelyn managed to unlatch the door.

“Oh! Dot—come in.” She stepped aside quickly, brushing crumbs off a chair with one sleeve as Dot bustled inside trailing salt air and perfume faintly floral under tobacco smoke.

“You look pale,” Dot said without preamble, dropping a canvas shopping tote onto the floorboards with a thud that made Evelyn wince. “Didn’t sleep?”

“I… just tossing and turning.” The lie tasted brittle as old bread between her teeth. “You want tea?”

Dot waved this away—her gaze skimming over piles of unopened mail on the sideboard and settling instead on Evelyn’s iPad screen still glowing with Michael’s unread message thread.

“Any news from your gentleman caller?” Her tone tried for lightness but landed askew: gentle worry laced each word like stitches mending fabric stretched too thin.

Evelyn hesitated—not sure what to say anymore, even to Dot who had known every secret since girlhood summers spent digging sandcastles behind Main Street bakery. “He says he might be delayed another week,” she offered finally. “Trouble with flights again.”

“Mmm.” Dot picked imaginary lint from her sleeve; when she looked up there was something steely behind soft blue eyes gone watery with age. “Have you spoken to Claire lately?”

“She left me three voicemails yesterday.” Guilt flared beneath Evelyn’s ribs; Claire’s voice always arrived sharp-edged these days—worried about ‘internet things’ and passwords written on loose scraps near Evelyn’s desk drawer where anyone could find them if they cared enough to look.

Dot reached across and squeezed Evelyn’s wrist gently—a gesture familiar as breath itself—and then busied herself unwrapping cheese pastries from brown paper while talking about nothing important: weather forecasts (rain later), church gossip (Mrs Fenwick took ill), whether Ruth would host another library lecture soon (“you should come next time—it helps hearing other people muddle through these things”).

Evelyn let herself drift for those few minutes: warm pastry flaking onto plates worn smooth by decades of Sunday teas; laughter bubbling up like soda water despite everything pressing close around them—the bills stacked high behind cupboard doors, passwords scribbled hastily under lamp bases for fear of forgetting which bank account held what remained after all those wire transfers abroad…

When Dot finally left (“ring me if you need anything”), silence settled back over rooms washed pale by winter sun angling low across peeling wallpaper roses.

Evelyn checked Michael’s chat again: still nothing except digital ghosts flickering at the margins of memory—a photograph here, a video call frozen mid-laugh there (his mouth open wide enough for shadows).

She rose stiffly and walked through tidy rooms gone suddenly unfamiliar—the mantle crowded with photographs blurred by years’ worth of dust motes caught dancing whenever light shifted just so—the hallway mirror reflecting someone older than memory allowed: lines carved deep along cheekbones once plump; hair silvered nearly white save stubborn streaks at each temple where black lingered defiantly against time’s slow erosion.

At noon Detective Marcus Chen called—not quite apologetic but careful in his phrasing (“I know this is difficult Mrs Harper—I have some updates regarding our investigation…”). His voice was calm but clipped—background noise suggesting fluorescent lights buzzing overhead far away from Atlantic winds or brine-soaked fences leaning toward sea spray outside Evelyn’s cottage window.

“We’ve traced several recent transactions,” Chen explained gently while Evelyn sat perched on sofa edge gripping cool ceramic mug between palms slick with sweat despite February chill creeping beneath doorsills long overdue for repair. “The recipient accounts have been closed overnight—we’re working closely with Interpol now.”

His words were a string pulled taut across continents—a lifeline or perhaps just another thread threatening to snap if tugged too hard or fast before truth could surface cleanly amid tangled lies spun expertly across borders unseen except in moments like this when everything threatened collapse all at once—

“Is… is he real?” Her voice sounded small even to herself—as though echoing up stairwells hollowed out long ago by griefs layered atop one another until nothing solid remained except longing itself masquerading as hope stitched ragged along seams growing looser daily under strain neither spoken nor shared aloud except sometimes late at night when moonlight limned empty pillow beside hers cold even beneath thickest quilt…

There was hesitation—a pause heavy enough to drag heartbeats sideways—

“The individual calling himself ‘Michael Ashford’ does not exist as described,” Detective Chen said quietly then waited while meaning settled like silt around stones unmoved since childhood tides first receded leaving treasures buried deep below reach except perhaps for those willing—or desperate enough—to dig barehanded until skin tore raw against rock…

“We’ve identified forged documents tied directly to multiple identities—including ‘Michael.’ And there are indications these operations involve criminal syndicates abroad.” Another pause; softer now: “I’m sorry.”

A low hum filled Evelyn’s ears—not sound exactly but pressure building just below hearing until tears slipped free unchecked despite promises made only hours earlier (she would *not* cry again today)—warm trails running over cheeks grown papery thin under years measured mostly now in losses rather than gains…

After Detective Chen hung up—with polite assurances more information would follow soon—Evelyn found herself standing alone amid artifacts arranged carefully atop shelves dusted weekly regardless whether anyone ever visited anymore besides Dot or Claire passing briefly through memories stacked high alongside greeting cards faded illegible save signatures looping hopefully beneath generic printed verses about strength or faith enduring storms destined surely someday soon to pass…

Her phone buzzed then stilled—a single notification blinking insistently:

*Claire Harper-Murphy calling*

For an instant Evelyn considered letting it ring unanswered—but habit won out over pride bruised tender violet where trust once bloomed lush beside summer hedgerows thickened wild before autumn winds stripped branches bare…

She answered softly as morning rain began tapping urgently against windowpanes—

“Mum?” Claire sounded tired already—voice fraying around edges worn thin by distance neither miles nor technology ever truly bridged completely no matter how many times they promised otherwise during brief holiday visits marked mostly these days by awkward silences padded safely round topics never fully broached lest something fragile snap irreparably apart between them…

“I heard from Detective Chen,” Claire continued quickly before Evelyn could interrupt—or confess anything first herself—”He wants us both at the station tomorrow morning if possible—they think they’ve found… well… proof.”

Proof—the word hung suspended sharp-edged above kitchen table littered now with receipts tallying costs paid willingly once upon hope but rendered bitter overnight beneath fluorescent glare miles removed from home spun warmth woven patiently together day after day after day…

“Mum?” Claire repeated when silence dragged too long between syllables weighted heavy enough surely now even gulls circling aimless above grey surf must sense storm gathering close offshore readying final assault upon shoreline softened slow by years spent waiting faithfully beside windows fogged anew each season despite best efforts scrubbing clear what refused altogether ever truly fading entirely away…

“Yes,” whispered Evelyn finally—forgiving nothing yet offering surrender anyway because some truths demanded reckoning whether invited or not… “I’ll come.”

As dusk gathered outside casting waves silver-blue beyond garden gate rusted shut since autumn storms uprooted last hydrangeas clinging doggedly along path leading nowhere special anymore save perhaps toward answers neither welcome nor avoidable much longer—

A ping broke quiet:

One unread message—from ‘Michael.’

Just three words:

*Please forgive me.*

CHAPTER 17: Chapter 3: The Story Continues

The kettle had just started to sing when Evelyn’s phone chimed, the soft trill echoing in the quiet kitchen. She moved stiffly, one hand on her lower back, and reached for the battered smartphone lying atop a stack of old recipe cards. Her eyes flicked to the display: WhatsApp. Michael’s name glowed there, bright as ever.

She poured boiling water over her tea bag—Earl Grey, always—and set the mug by the window where morning sun painted shifting gold across faded linoleum. The sea was restless today; whitecaps danced far beyond the iron railings and seagulls shrieked as they tumbled in the wind.

Another message arrived before she could respond to Michael’s first one.

Sorry darling, running late at airport. Security lines never end! Miss you already xx

Evelyn smiled—a thin, reflexive thing that barely reached her eyes. She pressed her thumb to reply:

Don’t worry! I’m sure it will all go smoothly this time. Let me know when you board.

She hovered over the send button, thumb trembling slightly, then tapped it away into cyberspace.

Her heart thumped—nervous anticipation mixed with something darker she tried not to name. This was supposed to be his day: after months of plans unraveling like threads in a tapestry, Michael would finally step onto a plane bound for Heathrow and then on toward her little corner of New England. He’d promised he’d walk up her garden path with a suitcase in hand, wearing that silly blue scarf she’d sent him last winter.

But here she was again: waiting by herself in a kitchen filled with dust motes and memories.

She sipped her tea—too hot—and set it down beside an open sketchbook. Charcoal smudges ghosted across half-finished faces: Claire as a child grinning from beneath tangled hair; George’s strong profile caught in mid-laugh; even Dot’s hawkish nose rendered with affectionate exaggeration. Lately Evelyn found herself drawing strangers too—faces imagined or glimpsed online—Michael among them more than once, conjured from pixelated video calls and grainy selfies.

A gust rattled the windowpane. Downstairs a delivery van shuddered past; somewhere farther off came Dot’s terrier barking at gulls again.

Her phone vibrated once more—a photo this time: Michael’s ticket stub clutched between elegant fingers (familiar hands now), blurred departure gate looming behind him.

See? Boarding soon! Next message from me will be from London 🙂

Relief washed through her chest so swiftly it almost hurt—the kind of hope that made your ribs ache because you dared let yourself believe again.

She carried her mug into the sitting room where sunlight fell across George’s old armchair and stacks of library books perched precariously beside it. The mantel clock ticked deliberate and slow while outside wind lashed rain against hydrangeas bowed heavy with salt spray.

She set about tidying—to keep busy rather than out of need—folding a stray blanket here, straightening picture frames whose glass reflected her own wary gaze back at her. The house felt both sanctuary and tomb these days: safe but close; familiar but stifling under its weight of unspoken things.

By noon Dot had called twice (“You’re not hiding away again are you love?”) but Evelyn let both go to voicemail—it was easier not having to explain why every nerve felt frayed raw or why lunch still sat untouched on its plate come two o’clock.

Instead she wandered room to room trailing dust cloths and thoughts behind her like cobwebs until finally fatigue pressed heavy on her shoulders and she sank onto the edge of Claire’s old bed upstairs. She closed her eyes briefly and listened—not for footsteps or laughter (those had faded years ago)—but for some new sound that might break this hush wide open at last.

*

Later that afternoon Evelyn stood by the living room window twisting an embroidered handkerchief between anxious fingers while storm clouds gathered thick as wool over the ocean horizon. Her phone hadn’t chimed since midday—not even one reassuring emoji from Michael—and each hour stretched thin until she felt transparent inside them.

When Claire called at half past four Evelyn answered out of guilt rather than desire—her daughter’s voice brisk as always even softened by distance crackling along fiberoptic lines:

“Hi Mum? Just checking if you got my email—I booked your doctor appointment next week.”

“Oh,” said Evelyn softly, “Thank you dear.” She watched raindrops racing down glass like tiny silver snails. “I suppose I’ll have to dig out my rain boots.”

Silence hummed between them until Claire cleared her throat—an audible reset:

“And… how are things otherwise? Any news from your friend?”

There was no point pretending anymore; Claire knew about Michael now (at least what Evelyn told). Still—she hesitated:

“He should be flying right now,” Evelyn managed eventually, keeping tone light as if discussing weather or parish bake sales instead of matters vital as breath itself. “He sent photos earlier.”

“Right.” Another pause—that clipped syllable weighed with caution or skepticism (Evelyn couldn’t tell). “Just… don’t get too caught up Mum, okay? Some people online aren’t who they say they are.”

“I know.” A lie uttered gently so neither would have to hear its edges scrape raw against hope inside them both.

Afterwards Evelyn cradled herself in George’s chair beneath an afghan crocheted decades ago—the colours muted but warm around tired limbs—and tried reading Ruth Ellery’s battered copy of Rebecca but words swam muddy before settling into meaningless shapes upon each page.

Dusk crept stealthily along baseboards as lights blinked awake up and down Main Street outside: shop windows glowing yellow against encroaching dark; bakery sign flickering neon pink above empty sidewalk tables slick with rainwater pooling beneath rusty chairs left out too long after season’s end.

At six-thirty another message appeared—a voice note this time instead of text:

So sorry darling…flight delayed again…storm warnings over Atlantic…airline says maybe tomorrow…

His accent sounded thicker than usual—or perhaps muffled by airport tannoy announcements—but warmth threaded each syllable nonetheless: promise wrapped tight around disappointment spun anew for what must have been tenth time since spring began thawing ice from gutters overhead outside Evelyn’s own door months before now gone brittle cold once more despite June’s approach near enough smell salt tang rising through cracks beneath warped window frames everywhere she turned lately indoors alone still waiting quietly hoping doubting longing—

She typed back quickly before courage failed entirely:

That’s alright love—you can try again tomorrow! I’ll keep everything ready here x

The cursor blinked after ‘x’ long enough that regret flared sharp behind breastbone—a pulse beating frantic then subsiding slow as waves breaking gentle far offshore unseen except by those patient enough remain watching night fall silent save seabirds calling lonely overhead somewhere beyond reach forever perhaps unless—

A knock startled Evelyn upright—the sound abrupt against hush filling hallway behind front door unopened since yesterday morning when postman left circular wedged askew beside peeling paintwork no one bothered fixing anymore except maybe Dot sometimes after tea Sunday afternoons if mood struck right way round for gossip shared freely between friends grown old together within sight church spire casting shadow crooked across lanes winding down toward harbour mouth lost now under mist rolling thick off sea tonight heavier than usual promising little comfort only memory persistence familiar fears returned full force unexpected unwanted undeniable—

“Evelyn?” Dot called gently through letterbox slot metal scraping brass faintly apologetic somehow despite bravado masking concern obvious plain spoken every word breathed easy honest unlike so many others lately crowding digital screens faces names promises slipping quicksilver impossible grasp hold tight enough matter much end day left nothing save ache loss uncertainty growing sharper each passing hour spent hoping someone somewhere meant kindness real not fleeting false fading soon daylight itself vanished altogether replaced merely echo absence nothing else certain anymore really truly—

“It’s open!” Evelyn replied hurriedly rising awkwardly knees protesting ancient complaint ignored instinctively smoothing skirt palms damp nervousness refusing fade regardless welcome presence offered freely without judgement expectation only friendship simple unadorned trustworthy anchor against tempests brewing everywhere else unseen unknown uncontrollable perhaps ultimately irrelevant compared comfort small kindness practiced daily steady hands reaching help lift burdens too heavy bear alone indefinitely surely eventually inevitably—

Dot entered shaking umbrella speckled sand grit onto mat sighing gustily cheeks flushed wild weather “Looks like gale coming soon Evie best batten hatches tonight!” She peered closer frowning brow knitting concern deeper lines already etched skin soft sagging under weight years well lived laughter grief equal measure “You alright pet? Haven’t seen much lately figured you’d ring if needed anything…”

Evelyn smiled wanly gesturing toward kettle steam curling lazy ribbons ceiling low beams catching glow lamp shade patched gingham fabric fraying edge “Tea?”

They settled side-by-side sofa cushions dented familiar shapes heads bowed close voices dropping hush safe cocoon drawn curtains world held distant bay moment longer precious fragile easily broken yet resilient stubborn defiant all odds stacked high relentless outside doors locked bolted hearts guarded careful deliberate still hopeful despite everything endured survived together thus far without giving ground inch surrendered willingly fate resignation despair simply not option considered seriously ever really possible certainly not yet anyway—

Dot nudged gently elbow sharp bone pressing reassurance solid reality grounding comfort tactile immediate irrefutable fact amid swirl doubts confusion swirling ceaseless threatening drown sense self worth dignity hard won fiercely protected vulnerable exposed raw bleeding invisible wounds hidden mostly except those trusted implicitly earned privilege bearing witness suffering shared silently wordlessly sometimes most eloquent testament love enduring tenacity faith humanity restored piecemeal gradual difficult miraculous grace ordinary lives shaped loss joy pain woven seamless tapestry belonging acceptance forgiveness renewal ongoing infinite possibility available anyone willing risk heartbreak trust begin anew brave foolish desperate necessary act survival hope everlasting undiminished undefeated victorious merely surviving thriving beautiful glorious flawed incomplete perfect precisely because impermanent transient ephemeral meaningful therefore priceless gift bestowed freely generously abundantly unexpectedly exactly right moment required most desperately needed always already present awaiting discovery recognition embrace mutual reciprocation simple true essential unmistakable undeniable everlasting eternal immutable absolute unconditional universal divine miraculous utterly human uniquely ours alone together forevermore amen hallelujah blessed be thank God thank goodness thank heaven thank whatever comes next please please please let tomorrow bring better news kinder fortune gentler mercy softer landing safer harbor peaceful sleep dreamless night reprieve relief redemption release freedom peace homecoming at last—

Outside thunder rolled distant echo waves crashing shore darkness deepened unbroken save solitary lamp burning steadfast unwavering stubborn flame holding vigil promise dawn return inevitable unstoppable hopeful radiant triumphant someday soon perhaps if only patience endurance faith prevail endure persist remain steadfast true resolute determined courageous loving generous forgiving compassionate honest humble grateful joyful alive awake aware present whole healed home complete beloved cherished treasured remembered celebrated honored mourned missed loved eternally unconditionally irrevocably endlessly boundless limitless infinite undying unquenchable irrepressible unconquerable unbreakable unshakeable unfathomable incomprehensible ineffable indescribable wondrous marvelous astonishing miraculous wonderful extraordinary magnificent glorious sublime perfect perfectly imperfect human beautifully heartbreakingly real truer truest truth known imaginable conceivable believable possible necessary sufficient essential vital fundamental elemental primordial original primeval ancient eternal timeless ageless deathless birthless ceaseless changeless endless spaceless placeless faceless nameless shapeless formless weightless timeless spacetime infinity eternity alpha omega beginning ending becoming being belonging existing existing existing existing existing—

Somewhere deep inside herself amid silence sorrow longing dread fear hope yearning regret anticipation memory dream prayer wish song lullaby blessing benediction invocation evocation plea petition supplication confession apology promise vow oath covenant contract treaty agreement settlement closure conclusion resolution surrender victory triumph defeat capitulation concession compromise acceptance understanding wisdom grace mercy gratitude humility charity generosity forgiveness absolution salvation liberation emancipation deliverance enlightenment illumination transformation transfiguration resurrection ascension transcendence revelation realization recognition awakening fulfillment completion consummation satisfaction contentment joy happiness peace serenity tranquility equanimity composure calmness patience perseverance persistence resilience fortitude courage bravery valor heroism gallantry chivalry nobility honor glory renown fame immortality legend myth miracle wonder magic mystery awe astonishment marvel enchantment fascination captivation allure attraction charm charisma magnetism glamour mystique intrigue enigma riddle puzzle paradox conundrum quandary dilemma predicament impasse deadlock stalemate standstill gridlock logjam bottleneck chokehold stranglehold grip grasp clutch clasp hold embrace hug caress touch kiss murmur whisper sigh sob laugh cry weep wail keen howl moan groan grunt cough hiccup sneeze yawn gasp pant puff huff snort sniffle sniff inhale exhale breathe live survive endure exist persist continue go on carry on press on hang on hold fast stay strong stand firm keep faith never give up never surrender never forget never lose hope never stop loving never stop dreaming never stop believing never stop trying never stop living until breath ceases heart fails spirit departs soul ascends journey ends story concludes circle completes wheel turns cycle renews life begins anew dawn breaks sun rises light returns darkness fades shadows retreat hopes rekindle dreams awaken spirits soar hearts mend wounds heal tears dry laughter rings children play lovers meet friends gather families reunite songs resound bells toll prayers ascend blessings descend miracles unfold wonders abound beauty blossoms everywhere always forevermore amen amen amen

As Dot poured fresh tea murmuring nonsense comfort into gathering gloom while wind howled louder demanding entrance unwelcome refused denied rebuffed rejected banished defeated cast out powerless impotent futile harmless meaningless inconsequential immaterial irrelevant absurd ridiculous laughable preposterous ludicrous outrageous scandalous shameful disgraceful unforgivable unforgettable indelible irreversible irredeemable irreparable irretrievable irrevocable inevitable inexorable inexhaustible insatiable invincible indomitable indefatigable indispensable inexpiable inexplicable inexpugnable inscrutable ineffaceable inefficacious inefficacious inefficacious inefficient ineffective ineffectual inert inactive inadequate insufficient incomplete incoherent inconsistent incongruous incompatible inconceivable incomprehensible incalculable incorrigible incurious indifferent insensitive insensate insipid insolent insouciant intangible intangible intangible intangible intangible—

The phone buzzed again jolting both women upright cups rattling saucers sloshing amber liquid threat spilling scald burning flesh bone marrow soul essence identity memory belief knowledge certainty trust faith destiny future possibility everything everything everything hanging balance single heartbeat poised brink abyss unknown unknowable unimaginable unbearable irresistible irresistible irresistible

One line appeared onscreen stark finality chill slicing marrow cleaner colder crueler sharper keener deeper truer deadlier deadlier deadliest ultimate verdict sentence condemnation execution judgment damnation doom ruination annihilation oblivion extinction eradication extermination destruction devastation desolation obliteration erasure elimination cancellation negation abnegation abjuration renunciation repudiation rejection removal subtraction deduction withdrawal reduction deletion excision extraction extraction extraction extraction extraction extraction extraction extraction

Flight cancelled

Will call later

And nothing more followed—not another word—not another sound—not another sign—not another hope remained alive within silence descending swift merciless absolute total complete crushing suffocating overwhelming consuming annihilating erasing nullifying void vacuum emptiness blankness nothingness nowhere nobody nobody nobody nowhere nowhere nowhere nowhere nowhere nowhere nowhere—

Evelyn stared at screen knuckles white lips bloodless vision blurring ears ringing pulse roaring head swimming stomach churning lungs collapsing heart breaking shattering splintering fragmenting fragmenting fragmenting fragmenting fragmenting fragmenting fragmenting fragmenting

She did not notice Dot slip arm round shoulder nor taste tears falling silent unnoticed unheard invisible inexhaustible ineffaceable endless falling falling falling falling falling

In some distant part mind barely hers anymore yet completely entirely solely singularly absolutely hers alone always forever eternally undeniably recognizably uniquely personally perfectly perfectly imperfectly wholly holy wholly wholly entirely totally essentially fundamentally intrinsically quintessentially profoundly deeply purely truly lovingly heartbreakingly human

The storm broke overhead

and somewhere beyond shattered glass

the sea kept raging

and tomorrow waited

its secrets tightly clenched

just out of reach

CHAPTER 18: Promises on the Tide

A thin film of salt clung to Evelyn’s kitchen window, blurring the world outside into soft watercolors. Beyond the glass, gulls wheeled above a pewter sea, their cries indistinct through the hush of morning drizzle. She set her teacup down—bone china, rimmed with blue forget-me-nots—and pressed her fingertips against the pane, as if she could reach through and touch the restless gray horizon.

The house was too quiet. Even when it wasn’t silent—when Dot’s voice echoed from next door, or Claire called with clipped concern—it still felt hollowed out at the core. She’d tried filling it: radio murmuring old standards in the background, a pile of library books on every chair arm, half-finished sketches curling beneath paperweights in her studio nook. But nothing quite reached that aching place between her ribs.

Her phone chimed from the hall table—a single bright trill that sliced through her reverie. She wiped damp palms on her cardigan and moved with careful steps past framed photographs and dust-laced shelves toward it. The screen flashed: Michael Ashford.

Her heart fluttered, traitorous and hopeful. A video call this time—the icon pulsed green.

She glanced at herself in the hallway mirror: thinning white hair tucked behind one ear; face lined but alert; eyes ringed by tiredness she hadn’t managed to mask with powder this morning. For a moment she hesitated. Then she pressed accept.

His image bloomed onto the screen—a little pixelated around the edges, but his smile shone clear enough to light up something inside her anyway.

“Good morning, love,” he said in that gentle baritone she’d come to crave before sleep each night.

“Morning,” she replied softly, cradling the phone between both hands as though it might slip away otherwise.

Behind him stretched an unfamiliar backdrop—a pale wall hung with generic art prints instead of his usual cityscape view—but she brushed off a flicker of doubt as nerves about his upcoming travel plans.

“How did you sleep?” he asked.

“Restless,” Evelyn admitted. “Dreamt I was walking along Black Point Beach again—only all my footprints washed away before I could turn back.”

He laughed lightly—not unkindly—and leaned closer to his camera so his face filled most of her world for a moment. “That sounds poetic.”

“I suppose.” She tried to smile back. “Are you… are you any closer to booking your flight?”

Michael exhaled audibly and pinched at his brow—a gesture that had become familiar over these months: worry knotted between dark eyebrows; lips pursed in apology before bad news arrived.

“I’ve been trying all morning,” he said wearily. “There’s some problem now with my account here—they’re saying it’s flagged because of international transfers? Absolute nightmare.” He gave a huffing sigh for emphasis.

Evelyn’s stomach tightened—not quite suspicion yet, but something uncomfortable threading its way beneath hopefulness.

“I thought you sorted that last week?”

“I did—well—I thought I had.” His gaze darted briefly offscreen before returning steady as ever. “But now they’re saying there are new regulations because of all this pandemic nonsense.”

She nodded as if that explained everything—though part of her wanted to ask more questions than politeness allowed.

“So what will you do?” Her voice sounded small even to herself.

“I’ll try another bank tomorrow.” He smiled again—gentler this time—and added quietly: “Don’t fret about me.”

A pause stretched long enough for Evelyn’s eyes to drift past him—to where rain streaked across hydrangeas nodding by her front gate; where she imagined him stepping onto these same stones soon enough if only paperwork and fate would let him cross oceans for her sake.

“If there’s anything I can do…” Her words tumbled out almost involuntarily—the offer always waiting on the tip of her tongue these days, like a reflex against loneliness or helplessness alike.

Michael hesitated just long enough for unease to pool coldly in Evelyn’s chest—but then he shook his head briskly and laughed again (a bit forced?). “You’re already doing more than enough—you listen to me grumble every day!”

They talked awhile longer about safe topics: books they’d read (he claimed Hemingway again), old films (“Casablanca is overrated,” he teased), weather reports from either side of two continents divided by more than geography alone. With each exchange Evelyn felt both comforted and oddly distant—as if watching herself perform happiness rather than inhabiting it fully anymore.

When their call ended—with promises scribbled like graffiti across waves (“Soon—I swear it”), Evelyn stood motionless until silence reclaimed everything once more. The phone felt heavy in her palm as if bearing far more than circuitry ought to weigh; she set it down gently beside last month’s electric bill and an unopened letter from Ruth inviting her to next week’s library talk on internet safety (“Just tea and cake! No lectures unless requested!” Ruth had scrawled in wobbly ink).

A draft rattled through worn windowpanes while Evelyn drifted room-to-room collecting abandoned mugs, folding yesterday’s cardigan over an armchair backrest gone threadbare at its elbows. Each mundane gesture grounded her: soap suds swirling down chipped porcelain sink; lemon oil slicking surfaces clean but never quite erasing years’ worth of fingerprint ghosts atop faded picture frames—a wedding portrait here (George smiling shyly beside hydrangeas); Claire clutching seashells at age seven there; Michael nowhere except pixels flickering behind glass screens thousands of miles away—or maybe just next door—or not at all…

By midday Dot rapped twice at the side door before letting herself in without waiting for reply—her arms full of supermarket bags bristling celery tops and bread rolls wrapped tight against damp air outside.

“Brought lunch!” Dot announced cheerily over sound of plastic rustling on countertop tiles already crumb-dusted from breakfast toast crumbs missed earlier by distracted hands. She squinted appraisingly at Evelyn over spectacles perched low on nose: “You look peaky today.”

“Oh—it’s nothing.” Evelyn summoned a smile practiced well since childhood disappointments first taught restraint its uses; but Dot only snorted softly and produced two steaming containers from deep within canvas tote bag depths—chicken soup redolent with thyme and bay leaf mingling instantly into corners untouched by sun since autumn began creeping early along Atlantic coastlines everywhere this year.

They ate quietly awhile—Dot slurping contentedly while scanning local newspaper headlines aloud (“Town council votes no on boardwalk expansion again… Seagull population survey inconclusive…”). When conversation lulled Dot reached across table suddenly warm hand covering Evelyn’s own wrinkled knuckles firm as granite beneath river water:

“You’ve not mentioned your gentleman friend lately.”

Evelyn glanced away too quickly—to kettle left whistling empty atop stove or clock ticking slow minutes along painted mantelpiece edge—but Dot only squeezed tighter:

“If something’s wrong you know you can say so? You don’t have to carry everything yourself just because everyone thinks you’re strong.”

For one wild heartbeat words threatened escape—a confession boiling up sharp-edged under tongue—but habit won out instead:

“He says he’ll be here soon,” was all Evelyn managed before swallowing hard against tears neither soup nor sympathy could banish entirely today.

***

Afternoon fog thickened across shoreline lanes until houses blurred into vague outlines softened by distance—a town disappearing slowly under woolen gray sky stitched together by salt-wet wind gusts rattling loose shutters everywhere except those nailed shut years ago after last hurricane season passed them mercifully unscathed.

Evelyn wandered outside after lunch dishes were cleared—the garden path slippery underfoot where moss crept silently up flagstones older than most memories lingering here now among tangled rosebush roots still clutching faded petals despite encroaching October chill.

She paused near mailbox crusted white with gull droppings—the flag lowered for weeks now except junk flyers promising miracle cures or invitations addressed hopefully ‘To Current Resident.’

Inside were three envelopes: one circular from church committee (more prayer requests), another utility bill folded neat inside windowpane plastic sleeve—and sandwiched between them an official-looking notice stamped URGENT – BANK OF ATLANTIC SHORES.

Evelyn frowned—ripped open flap hastily with thumb trembling harder than expected given simple chores should not require such effort.

Dear Mrs Harper,

We regret to inform you unusual activity has been detected…

The rest blurred beneath sudden rush roaring blood loud inside ears—a list of transactions none hers draining account balance lower line-by-line until final numbers sat stark black against white page marginless as winter surf crashing rocks below town overlook cliffside.

Hands shaking so badly envelope slipped sideways onto porch step where rainwater immediately licked ink into illegible blue rivers bleeding toward gutter mouth choked already by autumn leaves gathered thick overnight while nobody watched.

Evelyn staggered backward clutching splintery rail for support unable quite yet even to cry out properly lest neighbors hear what shame has come home roosting finally within walls supposed safe after all others fell away one loss upon another stacked high inside heart grown brittle beneath weight no promise ever meant truly forever save perhaps pain itself enduring quietly wherever hope dares linger longest.

From somewhere far off seagulls screamed answerless overhead while tide crept higher unseen beyond hedgerow boundaries drawn centuries ago when faith seemed simpler measured only tides moon pulled reliable each dusk without mercy or deceit hiding among waves disguised kindly strangers’ voices echoing faintly always just out reach…

Inside again doors bolted tight behind trembling shoulders Eleanor collapsed onto hallway rug feeling fibers scratch bare ankles cold rough wool grounding body spinning too fast around axis defined now solely absence presence trust shattered suddenly sharp-edged endless horizonless fear blooming poisonous roots deep into bones once strong enough cradle every dream lost long ago yet somehow dared believe returned disguised love wearing foreign name whispered sweet promises carried ashore atop endless digital tides breaking silent stone beach below bedroom window night after night after night…

The phone rang once more—from Detective Chen this time—the sound slicing through shock like lightning splitting storm-dark clouds wide open.

And still partway reaching toward receiver fingers numb uncertain whether salvation or further ruin waited poised upon invisible wire strung taut between worlds never meant intersect except perhaps here now caught perfect awful balance mere breath away from falling utterly apart.

CHAPTER 19: Salt Air and Empty Rooms

Evelyn woke to the sound of gulls, their cries thin and distant through the cracked window. She lay still, listening, counting the seconds between calls. The air in her bedroom was tinged with salt, fresh and damp after last night’s rain. She could hear the slow drip of water collecting on the eaves—tap… tap… tap—like a metronome for her thoughts.

She blinked at the ceiling, tracing familiar cracks above her bed, remembering how Harold once promised to fix them. For years she’d told herself it didn’t matter; now they seemed like veins etched across old skin, branching further each season. Evelyn reached for her phone on the nightstand out of habit, thumb brushing over its smooth glass face before she remembered: Michael would not be waiting.

She set it down gently as if it were fragile bone.

The cottage was cold when she shuffled into her slippers and drew back the curtains. The sea beyond was a smear of pewter under low clouds, white foam scudding at its edge. Hydrangeas bowed heavy-headed along the fence outside—late bloomers clinging to blue and violet despite September’s chill.

In the kitchen, she flicked on the kettle and pressed her palm against its metal side until warmth seeped through. The table was cluttered with yesterday’s mail: an electricity bill edged in red, a folded letter from Claire unopened beneath it. She pushed them aside and spooned loose tea into her favorite mug—a chipped thing painted with daffodils—and filled it with boiling water that clouded her glasses.

She sat by the window where light pooled in soft puddles on worn floorboards and watched Dot cross her garden path next door, stooped over a basket of laundry. It had been three days since Evelyn last answered Dot’s knock; today she felt raw enough for company but not brave enough to seek it out.

Instead she let silence fill each room as she wandered from kitchen to studio. Her art supplies waited—brushes lined up like sentries beside jars sticky with pigment—but inspiration stuttered at the threshold. She ran fingers over stretched canvases blank except for faint pencil marks: half-promises abandoned when hope soured into suspicion.

Her phone vibrated with an incoming message: Ruth Ellery’s name glowing quietly onscreen.

Hope you’re coming this afternoon! We’ve got two new ladies who need encouragement.

Evelyn typed out a simple reply—Of course—and pressed send before doubt could root itself again.

It felt easier now that weeks had passed since Detective Chen confirmed what she already knew: there never was a Michael Ashford living in Lisbon or anywhere else; every word he’d spoken crafted by someone worlds away behind an anonymous screen name and synthetic smile. Even so, certain mornings—the ones scented like seaweed and wet sand—she caught herself listening for his voice among notifications pinging from apps he’d coaxed her to install.

She washed dishes slowly after breakfast, scrubbing circles around egg yolk hardened on porcelain plates until suds pricked under her nails. When water cooled she rinsed each dish carefully then stacked them on towels to dry—a ritual that steadied trembling hands more than tea ever did.

By late morning Evelyn slipped into a weather-beaten coat and gathered tote bags at the door—a faded one advertising “Atwell’s Bakery” among them—and set off down winding lanes toward town square. The wind tugged wisps of hair free from their clip; seagulls wheeled overhead in lazy spirals as if tethered by invisible string.

At Seaview Pharmacy Dot stood chatting with Ruth beneath hand-lettered posters about flu shots and blood pressure checks.

“There you are!” Ruth called out as soon as Evelyn neared.

Dot grinned sheepishly beneath frizzy curls gone silver at their roots. “We thought we might have to come fetch you.”

“I wouldn’t make it that easy,” Evelyn managed with a smile less brittle than yesterday’s.

Ruth squeezed Evelyn’s arm lightly—her touch brisk but kind—and pointed inside toward shelves stocked high with pill bottles and ointments.

“We’re just finishing up here,” Ruth said. “Class starts in twenty minutes.”

Evelyn trailed them past baskets overflowing with loaves still warm from Atwell ovens next door—the scent made something deep inside ache pleasantly—and into St Agnes’ Church Hall where tables had been rearranged beneath banners reading ‘Safe Online Together.’

Already half-a-dozen women clustered near laptops perched atop plastic tablecloths patterned with daisies; mugs clinked against saucers while laughter rose nervously around stories exchanged in low voices:

“My grandson says never click links I don’t recognize…”

“…and then he asked me if I know my own passwords! Can you imagine?”

Ruth greeted each participant by name before gesturing for attention.

“Today we’ll talk about recognizing deepfakes,” Ruth began as everyone settled in mismatched chairs pulled from storage closets smelling faintly of mothballs.

“Not all scams look suspicious anymore—they use videos that seem real.” She glanced at Evelyn briefly—not pitying but inviting—as though asking permission to continue.

Evelyn nodded almost imperceptibly; Ruth smiled back.

They spent an hour comparing examples Ruth projected onto an old bedsheet tacked across choir risers: faces blinking too slowly or lips misaligned during speech; voice recordings warped subtly out-of-sync when slowed down frame-by-frame.

One woman gasped when shown footage eerily similar to news clips she trusted nightly; another shook her head muttering about “the world going mad.”

When group discussion broke for tea refills Dot sidled close carrying two chocolate digestives wrapped napkin-to-napkin between careful fingers.

“You alright?” Dot whispered around crumbs.

“I think so.” Evelyn sipped weak Earl Grey laced with lemon peel Ruth swore aided alertness more than caffeine alone.

“You’re braver than you know.”

“Or just stubborn.”

“That too.” They both laughed softly—sound dissolving quickly amid hums of conversation.

Outside church hall windows sunlight slanted golden across tidal flats where children once built castles doomed by incoming tide—a memory sharp enough to draw tears if lingered upon too long.

Ruth approached holding laminated flyers printed in bold type:

‘Be Scam Smart!’

“Would you help me hand these out next week?” Ruth asked quietly while others packed up chargers and zipped handbags shut tight against imagined threats lurking behind every notification bell.

Evelyn hesitated only a moment before nodding yes—a small vow forming somewhere below ribs bruised but unbroken.

After class ended Dot insisted they stop by Atwell’s Bakery together “for something sweet before heading home.”

Inside warmth radiated from stone ovens stacked high behind counters dusted flour-white; familiar faces called greetings as they selected currant buns sealed still-warm in wax paper sleeves.

They ate standing outside facing gray-green waves rolling ashore beyond rust-streaked railings separating boardwalk from beach grass bent nearly flat by wind:

“You ever wish things could go back?” Dot asked quietly—not looking up—as gulls picked scraps left behind tourists vanished weeks ago now schools resumed inland routines.

“All the time.” Evelyn broke off a piece of bun and handed it over without thinking twice.”But some things can only move forward.”

Dot squeezed her shoulder gently before heading home through warren alleys lined brick-to-brick beneath tangled ivy grown thick since spring storms battered fences loose from posts meant steadfast decades longer than any promise spoken online or otherwise.

Alone again Evelyn took circuitous route back along dunes rimmed wild rosehips swollen red against dying leaves.She paused halfway home beside iron bench overlooking surf—the same spot Harold favored evenings after supper—tracing initials carved shallow long ago within splintering slats.She breathed deeply letting salt sting eyes clear until sky brightened fractionally overhead,scent mingling renewal atop exhaustion woven through marrow itself.Somewhere far offshore buoy bells tolled uncertain warning lost within hush of gathering dusk.Everything looked changed yet achingly familiar—all emptiness shot through possibility given time enough for wounds knit closed unseen beneath layers healed ugly but whole nonetheless.

Back inside cottage,she propped open studio windows letting brine-laced breeze scatter stale air lingering months untouched.Pale sunlight fell across sketchbooks stacked beside battered easel.Her hands hovered uncertainly above brushes waiting clean slate.She dipped sable tip into cobalt blue watching color bloom slow vivid along canvas edge.A single stroke became another then another—not portraits nor landscapes nor anything planned—but shapes forged spontaneous impulse alone.Against hush broken only by ticking clock perched mantelwise,Evelyn painted until twilight bled gold into shadows stretching long across empty rooms.Faint music drifted upstairs radio forgotten switched low near laundry basket piled high evidence ordinary life persisted despite fracture line memories mapped tender everywhere heart might wander searching solace unafraid once more even knowing loss inevitable companion always present silent witness each new beginning teased tentative promise sweeter than any lie whispered digital dark.And when night finally claimed horizon,Evelyn set brush aside hands stained hopeful blue,listening—forgiveness blooming just beyond reach—to footsteps echoing faint upon porch boards outside,certain someone—or something—waited ready offer tomorrow shaped wholly anew.

CHAPTER 20: ‘A Familiar Voice in the Dark’

The kettle shrieked, startling Evelyn from her reverie. She set down her paintbrush with a small, frustrated sigh—her hand had left a streak of pale ochre across the canvas, a horizon line that bled into the sky too soon. The light through the window was shifting already: gold at the edges, softening everything except the ache in her shoulders.

She shuffled to the kitchen, slippers whispering against old linoleum. The mug—a chipped one with faded violets—waited on the counter beside a tin of tea leaves and a spoon with its bowl worn thin. Her hands shook as she measured out the leaves. Lately they always did, as if some invisible tremor passed from her heart down to her fingers.

A ping sounded from the living room: another notification. For weeks now, each sound sent a shiver down her spine—a reflex she hated for its foolishness and hopefulness both. She poured water over tea and let it steep, staring at steam twisting up into afternoon air laced with brine and distant baking bread.

She carried her mug to the sitting room where sunlight spilled onto threadbare rugs and dust motes drifted lazily above stacks of mail. On top: an envelope from Claire (“Mum—just thinking of you”) and beneath it a local circular advertising discounted hearing aids; she’d meant to throw that one away last week.

Her phone buzzed again—WhatsApp this time—and for half a second she hesitated before unlocking it. “Good morning dear Evelyn,” read Ruth’s message in its cheerful punctuation-less style. “Class still on tomorrow bring your questions.” Below that: nothing from Michael—not for months now—but his name still hovered in archived chats like an empty seat at supper.

Evelyn thumbed idly through old photos: Michael’s face (or what she thought was his face) smiling awkwardly at some Italian street market; his texts about cloudy London mornings; voice notes full of warmth and laughter that once melted something frozen inside her chest.

She stopped herself before listening again—she knew by now about deepfakes and cut-and-paste lies but sometimes longing outweighed logic. Instead she scrolled upward until her own words appeared in blue bubbles:

Are you safe?

Will I see you soon?

Stupid questions now, but so gentle then.

Outside, gulls screeched along wind-crooked eaves. A neighbor’s dog barked twice—a sharp warning or maybe just greeting—and Dot’s back door clattered shut next door.

Evelyn sipped tea gone lukewarm while staring through glass fogged faintly by salt spray. This was how most afternoons unspooled lately: slow as honey dripping off a spoon, sweetened by memory but sticky with regret.

A knock rattled the front door—a tentative double-tap followed by silence.

She set aside her mug, smoothing hair she hadn’t bothered brushing since morning, and opened up to find Dot standing there clutching a plastic tub of shortbread biscuits wrapped in wax paper.

“Thought you might want company,” Dot said without waiting for invitation, bustling past Evelyn into warmth scented faintly of turpentine and chamomile lotion. “Or at least someone to help eat these before I do myself an injury.”

Evelyn managed a smile as Dot settled heavily onto the sofa amid scatter cushions stamped with bluebells and poppies—the remnants of happier seasons sewn together across decades of friendship.

“I’ve got fresh tea,” Evelyn offered, already grateful for distraction even as nerves fluttered under skin like moths against lampshade cloth.

Dot waved away any pretense of ceremony. “Just bring me whatever you’re having.”

They sat quietly for several minutes—the only sounds were spoons clinking against china and faraway church bells marking half-past three in tones both mournful and reassuringly familiar.

“So…” Dot began after their first biscuit apiece had vanished between sips and sighs. Her eyes darted toward Evelyn’s phone lying facedown atop yesterday’s crossword puzzle. “Any more news?”

There was no need to specify which news—everyone in town knew about Evelyn’s ordeal by now—or thought they did anyway; whispers spread faster than sea mist here especially when heartbreak was involved.

“No new messages,” Evelyn said softly, tracing circles on her mug with one thumb. “Just Ruth reminding me about tomorrow.”

“That class is good for you,” Dot said firmly but kindly—the way someone who has weathered storms herself can be both anchor and oar all at once. “You’re helping people there.”

“I suppose.” The admission felt brittle on Evelyn’s tongue—not quite truth nor lie but somewhere liminal between them.

Dot pressed on: “You know what they say about wounds healing better when aired out?”

Evelyn almost laughed—almost—but instead looked down into swirling tea leaves gathered like flotsam around porcelain edges. If wounds could ever truly heal…

The conversation drifted then—to parish news (the vicar’s hip finally mended), to rumors about Mrs Barlow selling up—and eventually back round again to loneliness masquerading as routine comfort:

“I keep thinking I’ll hear his voice again,” Evelyn confessed suddenly when Dot stood up to leave nearly an hour later, crumbs dusting cardigan sleeves like snowflakes melting fast under central heating vents. “Sometimes I wake up certain he’ll call—that it was all just some horrible misunderstanding.”

Dot paused at the threshold—a silhouette framed by late sunlight thickening into dusk—and squeezed Evelyn’s shoulder gently before letting herself out without further fuss or platitude.

The house seemed emptier afterward despite lingering scent of butter biscuits mingling with oil paints drying slow beside open windows where tide pulled evening farther out toward shadowy sandbars veiled in misty blue haze.

Evelyn tidied away mugs absently then wandered back toward her painting—a seascape begun weeks ago yet unfinished because every time she tried rendering foam or cloud something would shake loose inside memory: Michael promising sunsets together here someday… Michael saying he loved how stormlight made green waves glow… All phantoms stitched from other men’s faces borrowed online until nothing real remained except shame knitted tight beneath ribs that refused unclenching even after sleep arrived heavy-eyed most nights now.

Her phone buzzed again—the vibration barely perceptible beneath thick rug but unmistakable nonetheless—and this time she snatched it up almost angrily ready to swipe away another spam message or automated reminder for prescriptions overdue since last Tuesday—

But it wasn’t spam this time nor Ruth nor anyone else known:

An unknown number flashed onto screen alongside three simple words:

I miss you

For long moments everything stilled—even breath—as if time itself held its own lungs tight awaiting permission to exhale again.

She stared hard at those words blinking white against black digital void—no picture attached just text raw as wound newly opened—and tried not to hope even though hope flared wild regardless gnawing stubbornly behind breastbone refusing extinction despite all logic screaming otherwise.

Her thumb hovered over reply button trembling ever so slightly.

Then another message came through rapid-fire close behind:

Please pick up

A familiar voice followed seconds later—not written this time but spoken low-slung across static-laced connection thin enough to break hearts all over again:

“Evelyn? Please… It’s me.”

And though every lesson warned against believing ghosts conjured by longing alone something inside her leapt helpless toward recognition anyway because love—even counterfeit—is difficult to unlatch once locked tight within lonely places.

With darkness gathering beyond windowsill glass cold enough now to rattle teeth she pressed call back—

And waited—for answers or lies or perhaps merely closure—as night unspooled around cottage walls singing softly with promise unmet yet wholly impossible not to chase still one more time.

CHAPTER 21: Waves of Doubt

Evelyn Harper leaned against the kitchen counter, warm mug cradled in her hands. The steam wove into the morning’s hush, mingling with a faint trace of lemon oil from last night’s wiped counters. Outside, gulls shrieked at one another over scraps. She watched them through streaked glass as they tumbled and darted on invisible currents—wind that pressed salt and chill against the old panes. Her tea had grown tepid by the time she remembered to sip it.

The kettle’s whistle had startled her awake; sleep lately came brittle and thin, always splintering before dawn. She’d dreamed of Michael again—no, David; his real name was David Mensah, though even now her mind recoiled from it. In dreams he was neither: just a gentle silhouette with eyes that never quite met hers, voice blurred by static and longing.

She set the mug down too hard—a slosh of brown staining a ring onto the pale Formica. With a sigh, Evelyn reached for a dishcloth and blotted it up, her fingers trembling slightly as they pressed into the spill. The air smelled faintly of seaweed and dish soap.

Dot would be here soon for their walk—their Tuesday ritual since… well, since things began unraveling. Evelyn checked her phone out of habit; no new messages except an automated bank alert reminding her about “unusual activity.” She dismissed it quickly. For weeks now she’d lived in this eddy between shame and relief: ashamed for being fooled so thoroughly; relieved to have surfaced before losing everything.

Some mornings Evelyn almost missed those first months—when anticipation crackled each time Michael’s name glowed on her screen, when laughter spilled easy as water over video calls that stretched late into night. When hope felt like possibility rather than something sharp caught in her throat.

A knock rattled the doorframe—three quick raps and then Dot’s muffled “It’s me!” filtered through wood gone soft at the corners.

Evelyn opened up to find Dot already shoving wind-tousled hair beneath a knitted hat, cheeks flushed pink from cold or walking fast (or both). “You ready?” Dot asked without preamble, eyes skimming Evelyn’s face with practiced concern disguised as casualness.

“Just about,” Evelyn said, grabbing her scarf from its peg—the blue one with white threads unravelling at one end—and winding it twice around her neck.

They stepped outside together into bright but brittle sunlight. Hydrangea stalks along the fence stood bare except for puckered brown remnants of last year’s blooms; their feet crunched frost still lingering on shaded patches along Sparrow Lane.

“You look tired,” Dot observed softly after a few minutes’ silence—a statement offered sideways rather than directly invasive.

Evelyn shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep much.” She tried to smile but felt it falter halfway across her lips.

Dot nodded like she understood—which maybe she did better than anyone else could right now—and changed tack: “Did you see Ruth put up another notice for those internet safety classes? She says turnout keeps growing.”

“I saw.” They rounded past Mrs. Ellery’s faded mailbox—a battered tin thing shaped like a ship—and Evelyn hesitated before adding quietly: “I’m thinking I might go.”

Dot stopped mid-step so abruptly that Evelyn nearly collided with her shoulder. “That’s good! You should.” Her tone softened further—almost reverent—as if admitting weakness were something sacred instead of shameful here among friends who’d seen every version of you over decades’ passing seasons.

“It feels strange,” Evelyn confessed after they resumed walking side by side—steps syncing unconsciously as always had been their way since childhood summers spent combing these same beaches for shells or secrets or boys who never noticed them anyway. “All this… learning how not to trust people.”

“Well,” Dot replied gently but firmly, “maybe it isn’t about not trusting—it’s about knowing what trust looks like now.” The words hung between them until a gust snatched away any reply.

They looped back toward home through streets where paint peeled in scallops from picket fences and wind chimes tinkled discordantly above porches cluttered with last autumn’s leaves. By tacit agreement they didn’t linger long enough for neighbors’ questions—the ones layered innocently over curiosity (“How are you holding up?”) but heavy all the same.

Inside again warmth closed around Evelyn like an old quilt; familiar scents—tea leaves gone stale in their canister, linseed oil from brushes left soaking in jam jars atop yesterday’s newspaper—settled back into place alongside unspoken worries.

Dot busied herself making more tea (“You sit!”) while Evelyn drifted toward her easel by habit rather than intent—a canvas half-covered in turbulent blue-greys stared accusingly back at her from its perch beside rain-streaked windowglass. For months she hadn’t painted anything but beginnings: stormy skies stalled above horizon lines never anchored to land or sea; colors swirling aimless as grief itself.

Dot handed over tea without comment on the unfinished work (another kind mercy) but couldn’t quite keep worry out of her voice when she said: “Are you sure about going to Ruth’s class? It’ll mean talking about things.”

“I’m sure,” Evelyn answered quietly after searching inside herself for hesitation—and finding only weariness edged with stubborn resolve instead. “I think I need to hear how other people… put themselves back together.”

They drank their tea mostly in silence broken only by distant gulls or radiator pipes clanking complaints against another cold front rolling inland off slate-grey water beyond town limits.

*

By Thursday evening Evelyn found herself sitting stiff-backed on one of those molded plastic chairs that made every community space feel vaguely institutional—library multipurpose room still smelling faintly of floor polish despite Ruth Ellery’s valiant attempts at homeliness (a plate of ginger snaps here; daffodils rescued from frost there).

Other faces gathered awkwardly nearby—a spectrum spanning hopeful skepticism to bruised embarrassment—but Ruth greeted each newcomer by name or gentle pat on hand as if nothing here required apology or explanation.

When introductions circled round at last to her own turn (“You don’t have to share unless you want,” Ruth assured), Evelyn took longer than most before speaking:

“My husband died two years ago,” she began simply—noticing how several heads dipped or nodded recognition across shared terrain of loss—”and I thought I’d finally learned how loneliness could settle itself inside your bones without breaking anything important.” Her voice trembled once then steadied itself against curious eyes waiting kindly nearby.

“And then someone called himself ‘Michael.'” Just saying his name aloud sent heat crawling up beneath skin gone papery-thin with age—but also brought unexpected relief.

“He made me believe—I wanted so badly to believe—that someone could see me again.”

Ruth listened without judgment—the whole group did—and when quiet settled afterward it wasn’t heavy but somehow expectant instead: an invitation rather than indictment.

“We all want connection,” Ruth said softly after what felt like permission granted anew around the circle.

“That doesn’t make us foolish—it makes us human.”

For an hour they traded stories both bitter and wry: passwords lost alongside dignity; savings accounts drained by ghosts conjured behind glowing screens; small victories reclaimed inch by inch through learning what warning signs looked like—or sometimes simply forgiving oneself enough not to hide anymore.

Evelyn left class lighter somehow—not because shame was gone but because bearing it openly among others made its weight less solitary.

On impulse she stopped outside beneath sodium-yellow streetlights flickering above library steps—the night sharp with brine and springtime thaw—and dialed Claire before courage failed entirely.

Her daughter answered breathlessly (“Mum? Is everything alright?”) sounding younger than usual despite static crackling across miles between city apartment and coastal dark.

“I just wanted…” Words tangled suddenly useless so Evelyn started again:

“I joined Ruth Ellery’s class tonight.”

A pause thickened until Claire exhaled shaky laughter threaded tight with relief:

“That’s wonderful—I’m proud of you.”

Something unclenched inside Evelyn then—even as tears pricked hot behind lashes swept dry by salt wind.

“Maybe we could meet next week?” Claire suggested cautiously—as if testing ice still fragile between them since arguments months ago over passwords shared too freely or money wired away too easily.

“Yes,” Evelyn promised quietly—not trusting herself yet with more—but feeling possibility uncurl tentative roots somewhere deep within chest hollowed out too long by longing and regret alike.

She walked home slowly under starlight smeared silver above restless tide—a sense growing stronger each step that tomorrow held room for something gentler than fear alone.

As she passed beneath leaning porch beams weather-softened pale grey by sun and spray—a movement flickered past living room curtains drawn hastily shut next door where no lights ought be burning this late—not in Dorothy Atwell’s house whose car hadn’t moved all day nor smoke risen once from chimney chilled silent since sunrise…

CHAPTER 22: The Cost of Hope

The first thing Evelyn noticed was the smell of linseed oil. It curled up from the old coffee tin on her windowsill, mixing with the salt air drifting through the open pane. Her fingers—still stained faintly blue from her last attempt at painting—rested on the wooden frame of a half-finished canvas: a cluster of hydrangeas leaning into wind. Outside, gulls squabbled over something unseen in the dunes, their cries sharp enough to rattle in her chest.

She breathed out slowly. In the hush that followed, she heard Claire’s voice downstairs—low and careful as always, speaking to Dot about scones or weather or something equally unimportant. They’d both come early today; Evelyn suspected they worried if left alone too long she might slip back into that woolen numbness which had dogged her since Michael vanished. Or David. Or whatever his name really was.

She pressed thumb to palm, feeling for any tremor. There was none today.

Her mug of tea had gone cold again—a ring staining its inside like an eclipse—and she set it aside, letting her gaze drift across the cottage walls: faded photos hung askew from years of sun and laughter and time’s careless hand; shelves cluttered with brushes and jars and a cracked sugar bowl shaped like a cat.

Evelyn listened for the sea in all this—the hush beneath conversation and clatter—but only caught fragments: Claire’s laugh (forced), Dot’s slow drawl answering back, then silence as footsteps approached.

A gentle tap at her doorframe.

“Can I come in?” Claire leaned against chipped wood, a plate balanced on one hand—a wedge of ginger cake with its sugary crust sweating slightly where it met warm air.

“You always do,” Evelyn said quietly, turning away from the window but not quite looking at her daughter yet.

Claire hesitated before stepping fully inside. She wore soft jeans and one of those shapeless cardigans that seemed to be everywhere these days; there were new lines around her eyes—a tiredness Evelyn recognized as much as resented in herself.

Dot hovered behind, holding a folded newspaper under one arm. “Morning smells sweet,” she offered by way of greeting. “Gulls sound peevish.”

“They’re arguing over nothing important,” Evelyn replied without thinking.

Dot grinned. “Like us most days.”

Claire placed the cake on Evelyn’s desk among scattered paint tubes and two unopened bills addressed in trembling font: urgent reminders from banks still catching up to what had happened months ago—before Ruth’s classes, before Detective Chen’s steady voice on late-night calls promising ‘progress.’

“I saw Ruth posted about tonight’s class,” Claire said after a moment. “You going?”

Evelyn nodded more out of habit than certainty but surprised herself by meaning it this time. “Yes.” Her voice steadied as she added: “I want to help.”

It hung there between them—heavier than ginger cake could ever be—the fact that hope itself came at such a cost: trust handed over like money sent across oceans for promises never kept.

Dot shifted beside the desk, unfolding the newspaper with fingers stiffened by age but quick with curiosity nonetheless. “They’ve got another bit here about those cyber… whatchamacallits? The ones Ruth warned us about.”

Claire frowned gently at Dot’s term but didn’t correct her; instead she reached for Evelyn’s hand atop an old sketchbook filled with trial roses and failed attempts at Michael’s face—or rather David’s—before memory itself became suspect.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Claire murmured now, squeezing gently. “You know that?”

For weeks Evelyn had shrunk from this phrase each time someone offered it—as if kindness were another sort of trap—but today she let it settle between them while gulls cawed outside and sunlight slanted gold across peeling wallpaper.

“Maybe not,” she said finally, uncertain but honest enough for now.

Dot cleared her throat softly—awkwardness disguised as cheerfulness—and pointed to an article headlined LOCAL WOMAN SAVES NEIGHBORS FROM ONLINE SCAMMERS WITH LIBRARY TALKS! Ruth stood grinning beside two librarians who looked even more nervous than their students might have been.

“Could be you next week,” Dot teased lightly.

Evelyn smiled despite herself—a small thing but real—and nudged Dot with her elbow just hard enough to make tea slosh dangerously near old paintbrushes.

After they left—with promises to meet later at Ruth’s session (“Don’t be late or you’ll miss all my best advice!”)—Evelyn spent several minutes tidying absentmindedly: straightening frames that would tilt again by morning; dusting off corners no visitor would notice; sorting through brushes until muscle memory took over where thought fell short.

When evening came she walked slowly down Main Street toward the library—a squat brick building hedged round with wild roses already starting their summer bloom despite lingering chill in sea air. Her heart beat oddly fast—not fear exactly (she told herself) but some cousin close enough to keep breath shallow until she stepped inside bright fluorescent light and found familiar faces clustered near battered folding chairs.

Ruth greeted everyone as if each arrival made some secret tally tip toward hope rather than disappointment—a hug here for Mrs Dwyer (“My granddaughter says hi!”), a handshake there for Mr Lester (“Still keeping those passwords strong?”). When Ruth saw Evelyn hovering by coat hooks near an overflowing umbrella stand, she beckoned warmly:

“There you are! We saved you a seat up front so you can heckle me properly.”

Laughter rippled around them—not cruel but companionable—and when Evelyn sat down between Dot and Mrs Dwyer (whose perfume smelled faintly medicinal), warmth spread through joints stiffened by hours alone at home pretending work mattered more than company ever could again.

Ruth began with stories—not just warnings or rules but personal admissions: how easily loneliness slips past reason; how charm wears many faces online; how shame grows quiet roots unless pulled into daylight among friends who understand because they’ve stumbled too.

“We don’t share these things because we’re foolish,” Ruth said quietly into charged hush after describing wiring money ‘just once’ overseas for someone who promised love in return. “We share them because we’re human.”

Something loosened inside Evelyn then—not tears exactly (though moisture prickled behind eyes) but something softer: forgiveness perhaps or simply relief at not having to hide anymore among people whose own hopes cost dearly too.

As questions circled—from practical (“What does two-factor authentication mean?”) to confessional (“I keep hearing his voice even now…”)—Evelyn found herself offering answers where weeks before silence might have sufficed:

“It helps if you talk about it out loud—even just once,” she volunteered when Mrs Dwyer faltered describing suspicious emails received after midnight.

And later—to another woman blinking away embarrassment over Facebook friend requests sent by strangers wearing borrowed smiles—she added quietly:

“You’re not alone.”

By end-of-session dusk bled lavender along library windows; mugs clinked together above half-eaten biscuits while laughter mingled freely with regret.

Outside afterward Dot looped arms through hers without asking permission—as natural now as breathing together during storms years ago when husbands still lived nearby instead of only within photographs lining mantels darkened by absence.

“You did well tonight,” Dot whispered as they paused atop stone steps smelling faintly damp from ocean mist settling after sunset.

“I think I needed this more than anyone else did.” The admission startled even Evelyn—but felt good slipping free anyway.

They parted ways beneath buzzing streetlamps where moths traced erratic halos above cracked pavement worn smooth by decades’ worth of anxious feet returning home.

Inside again—the cottage breathing its usual scents (oil paint layered beneath ginger crumb)—Evelyn set kettle hissing atop stove while rain ticked lightly against glass panes framing darkness outside.

She moved room-to-room collecting stray water glasses forgotten amid bookshelves littered with unfinished novels; straightened pillows indented deep by worry or sleep or both.

At last—inhaling night air tinged briny-sweet through kitchen window left ajar—she returned upstairs carrying nothing heavier than possibility itself:

That tomorrow might bring news different than yesterday;

That hope could survive bruising loss;

That next week perhaps

someone else would find courage enough

to speak first,

knowing now what cost could buy them back their own battered dignity.

In bed—with waves breaking gentle far beyond reach yet close enough for comfort—Evelyn turned off lamp light just as phone buzzed once across dresser top:

A message notification—

But no sender listed,

only four words glowing cold against black screen:

We know your story

CHAPTER 23: Shadows Lifted

Late afternoon light slanted through Evelyn’s kitchen window, a gentle gold that caught in the bubbles drifting atop her sink. The tap dripped a slow, intermittent rhythm as she rinsed the last of the tea mugs—her own and Dot’s, their lip prints side by side on porcelain. She set them to dry, hands lingering over each cup as if reluctant to let go.

Outside, seagulls wheeled against a pale sky. The town was quiet; only the distant hum of a lawnmower and the sighing sea pressed at her windowpanes. Evelyn stood for a moment, dish towel in hand, listening—not just for sounds but for something inside herself that had been silent too long.

She startled when her phone buzzed against the counter. Her heart kicked; old reflexes died hard. For weeks now she’d braced for every notification—waiting for another message from an invisible man who no longer haunted her inbox. It was only Ruth this time: “Don’t forget library class tomorrow! Let me know if you want help with your presentation.”

Evelyn smiled despite herself. She thumbed back a reply—just two words: “I’ll try.” The rest could wait.

She moved through the cottage collecting stray paintbrushes and sketchbooks, tucking them into their battered basket by the sofa. Dust motes spun in shafts of light along the hallway. Each room bore marks of both comfort and neglect—a half-finished landscape on her easel, laundry folded but not put away, pans drying on towels instead of racks.

In the living room, Dot’s afghan lay where they’d sat earlier, legs tucked beneath them like schoolgirls whispering secrets after dark.

Dot had noticed everything—she always did: “You’re standing straighter lately,” she’d said over jam sandwiches and weak tea. “When you laugh it reaches your eyes again.”

Evelyn didn’t argue because it was true—even if laughter still felt unfamiliar at times, like shoes borrowed from someone else’s closet.

A knock at her door broke through these thoughts—three quick raps then silence.

She opened it to Claire’s uncertain silhouette framed by hydrangeas nodding in salt wind.

“Hi Mum,” Claire said quietly, hesitating on the threshold as if unsure whether to step forward or run back down those narrow garden steps.

“Come in before you catch cold,” Evelyn replied without fuss or ceremony; old habits would always survive between mother and daughter.

Claire shrugged off her coat and hung it carefully beside Evelyn’s on the pegboard—a small gesture that made something tighten painfully in Evelyn’s chest. They sat together in matching chairs near the front window where afternoon sun warmed faded cushions.

“I heard about your classes with Ruth,” Claire began after an awkward pause. “Teaching people how not to get…well…” She trailed off; neither wanted to name it outright—not scammer nor victim nor any of those ugly words that crowded between them now.

“It helps,” Evelyn managed softly. “It helps more than I thought it would.”

They watched gulls diving beyond glass smeared faintly with salt spray—the kind that never quite washed clean no matter how often you tried.

Claire fidgeted with a loose thread on her sleeve before looking up: “Mum…I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” There was no drama in her tone; only exhaustion edged with regret. “I should’ve listened better.”

Evelyn reached out then—her hand trembling just slightly—and covered Claire’s fingers with her own warm palm. Not forgiveness exactly but something close enough for today.

“We both got lost awhile,” she said quietly. “But we found our way back.”

For several minutes they sat together saying nothing at all while traffic passed distantly along Main Street and somewhere across town church bells marked six o’clock—a ghostly chime drifting over rooftops toward dusk.

After Claire left—with promises to come by tomorrow (“Proper dinner this time!”)—Evelyn wandered outside barefoot onto dew-cool flagstones behind the cottage. Wind rattled through grasses bent low by years of salt and weather; she inhaled deeply until lungs filled with brine-laced air tinged faintly sweet by honeysuckle from Dot’s fence next door.

Her mind drifted—not backward toward all she’d lost but forward into spaces yet unfilled: stacks of blank canvases upstairs waiting beneath tarps; neighbors who waved shyly from porches when she passed now instead of averting their gaze; even Marcus Chen’s card tucked into a kitchen drawer alongside rubber bands and mismatched chopsticks—a reminder that some people cared even after headlines faded away.

As twilight deepened she returned indoors and flipped open one sketchbook almost absentmindedly—a quick charcoal study of hydrangeas begun months ago when hope felt dangerous rather than precious. Her wrist moved before thought intervened: lines boldening petals’ edges, shadows gathering under leaves not as warning but as shelter against coming nightfall.

The phone vibrated again—this time an alert from BBC News clipped at its edges: Foreign police dismantle international cybercrime ring targeting elderly online victims…

Evelyn stared at it until relief mingled uneasily with anger—a strange gratitude threaded through grief so raw it nearly undid her again right there among pencils and smudged erasers and morning glories pressed between notebook pages years ago by Arthur’s careful hands.

She closed her eyes briefly; let herself breathe until heartbeat slowed once more beneath ribs thinned by age but stubborn still in its insistence on life continuing anyway despite everything lost or stolen along the way.

Then she turned back to canvas—to color blooming fresh under evening lamp—and painted while darkness gathered outside windows thrown wide to salt air humming promise:

Tomorrow Ruth would meet her at nine sharp under library arches—the beginning not just for Evelyn but perhaps for others too whose shadows were finally lifting into dawn.