The car's tires crunched over gravel as Clara Bennett eased to a stop in front of the weathered stone cottage perched on the cliffs of Havenridge. The Atlantic stretched out endlessly before her, its waves cresting and crashing against jagged rocks below. The salty air whipped through her open window, tangling her hair and carrying with it the sharp scent of seaweed and brine. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, willing the tension in her chest to dissolve.
This was why she'd come here.
The past year had unraveled her life like an old sweater caught on a nail. A messy divorce, an uninspired career, and the realization that she had been living someone else's dream left her adrift. Havenridge, a place she had stumbled upon in a travel article years ago, seemed like the perfect escape—a quaint, coastal town far removed from the chaos of Boston.
Clara stepped out of the car and gazed at the cottage. It was smaller than she remembered from the photos, its slate roof dotted with patches of moss. The shutters hung slightly askew, and the garden, once vibrant, was now overgrown with wildflowers and tall grass. But the view—the sweeping panorama of the ocean and the rugged cliffs—made up for any shortcomings.
Her fingers grazed the brass skeleton key in her pocket. It felt heavy with promise, a tangible symbol of her new beginning. As she approached the front door, the boards of the porch groaned under her weight, as if the house itself were sighing in recognition of its newest tenant.
The lock turned with a satisfying click, and the door creaked open to reveal a dim interior. Sunlight filtered through dusty windows, casting muted streaks of gold across wooden floors scuffed with age. The faint scent of cedar and salt lingered in the air. Clara hesitated in the doorway, a pang of uncertainty catching her off guard.
Was this the right choice? Was she running toward something, or just away?
Shaking off the thought, she stepped inside and began exploring.
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Inside the Cottage
The cottage was every bit as rustic as she had imagined, with its low-beamed ceilings, stone fireplace, and built-in bookshelves lining one wall. Clara ran her hand along the shelf, dislodging a fine layer of dust, and paused at a stack of old novels—many with titles she didn't recognize. The furniture, though mismatched and faded, held a certain charm, and she could almost picture herself curled up on the worn armchair by the fire, a cup of tea in hand.
In the kitchen, she found a cast-iron stove, a chipped porcelain sink, and cabinets with peeling paint. A vase of dried lavender sat on the windowsill, its faded blooms a quiet reminder that this place had once been loved. The attic door, half-hidden behind a narrow staircase, caught her eye, but she decided to leave exploring it for another time.
Clara set her suitcase down in the bedroom, where a small bay window overlooked the cliffs. The bedframe was iron, the quilt atop it hand-stitched in muted shades of blue and gray. She traced the pattern absently before sitting on the edge of the bed. Outside, the waves continued their steady rhythm, an endless lullaby.
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The First Signs
That night, Clara stood on the porch, clutching a steaming mug of tea as the sun dipped below the horizon. The sky bled shades of crimson and gold, fading into twilight. She listened to the sounds of the sea—waves crashing, gulls crying, and the occasional whisper of the wind through the tall grass.
It was peaceful. Almost too peaceful.
As she turned to go back inside, something caught her eye—a faint glimmer in the attic window. Clara frowned. Had she left a light on? She was sure she hadn't touched anything upstairs.
Curiosity warred with unease as she climbed the narrow staircase, flashlight in hand. The attic smelled of dust and old wood, the air thick and still. Moonlight filtered through a single small window, casting long shadows across the space. Boxes and trunks were stacked haphazardly, their contents obscured by years of neglect.
She swung the flashlight beam across the room, her heart racing faster than she wanted to admit. Nothing seemed out of place. Yet, as she turned to leave, her foot caught on something—a loose floorboard. The sudden jolt made her flashlight flicker, and for a brief moment, she thought she heard something faint: a rhythmic tapping sound, like fingers drumming against wood.
When she steadied the light, the sound had stopped.
"Get a grip," she muttered under her breath, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck. But as she stepped back into the hallway, she couldn't shake the feeling that the house was watching her, waiting for her to notice something she wasn't ready to see.
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A Glimpse of the Past
The next morning, Clara awoke to sunlight streaming through the window and the sound of waves breaking against the shore. Shaking off the remnants of uneasy dreams, she decided to spend the day settling in. She unpacked her suitcase, cleared away cobwebs, and tackled the overgrown garden with a pair of rusty shears she found in the shed.
Later, as she sat on the porch with her laptop, she tried to focus on the novel she'd come here to write. But her thoughts kept drifting back to the attic and the strange tapping sound.
By mid-afternoon, curiosity got the better of her. She returned to the attic, determined to explore the loose floorboard she had tripped on. Prying it up with a screwdriver, she uncovered a small, hidden compartment. Inside was a leather-bound journal and a bundle of yellowed letters tied with a faded blue ribbon.
The journal crackled as she opened it, its pages filled with elegant, looping handwriting. She flipped to the first page, her breath catching as she read the opening lines:
"To the one who finds this: If you're reading these words, then you've discovered what I could not leave buried. Our love was as boundless as the sea, but so too were the secrets that kept us apart."
Clara looked around the attic, half expecting to find the writer standing there, watching her. The waves crashed below the cliffs, steady and relentless. For the first time, Havenridge didn't feel quite so peaceful anymore.