The wind carried the faint smell of salt and seaweed, mingling with the steady creak of the dock under Elias's boots. He walked slowly, letting the rhythm of the ocean fill the silence. This was his favorite part of the day—the moments just before dusk, when the world seemed to exhale and grow still.
Clearwater was a small, unremarkable town perched on the edge of the Atlantic, its charm worn and rugged like the cliffs that framed it. It was a place people rarely visited, and those who did almost never stayed. But for Elias, it was exactly what he needed—a refuge where no one asked questions, and no one knew his past.
The docks stretched out before him, old wood weathered gray by years of sun and salt. Fishing boats bobbed in the calm water, their faded paint telling stories of long days at sea. Elias stopped at the edge of the dock, his journal in hand, its leather cover worn smooth by years of use. He flipped it open, skimming past pages of sketches—boats, waves, gulls, and faces. Always faces.
His pencil hovered over the blank page as his mind wandered. Two years. Two years since he'd left the city, since he'd walked out on everything he thought he wanted. The memory came back unbidden—a small café table, the clink of cups against saucers, and her voice, calm and steady, delivering a truth that shattered him.
"I never meant for it to happen."
The words had lingered in the air, hollow and cold. He hadn't responded, hadn't trusted himself to speak. Instead, he'd left.
Elias shook the memory away and began to sketch. The lines came naturally, the shape of a boat forming on the page. He worked quickly, filling in details, adding texture and shadows. Drawing had always been his way of making sense of the world, of ordering the chaos in his mind.
"Elias!" a voice called from behind. He turned to see Isaac, the boatyard's owner, standing at the entrance to the workshop. The old man waved a hand, his grin as warm as ever.
"You heading back soon?" Isaac asked, his voice carrying over the sound of the waves. "Storm's brewing."
Elias glanced at the horizon, noticing for the first time the bruised clouds gathering in the distance. The air had a heaviness to it, a stillness that always came before the rain.
"Yeah," Elias replied, tucking his journal under his arm. "I'll head in."
Isaac nodded, his grin widening. "Good. Don't want you getting caught out here. That old boat of yours might not survive another squall."
Elias smirked faintly but didn't reply. He liked Isaac—liked his straightforwardness, his lack of pretense. In a town full of people who kept to themselves, Isaac was the one who always had a story to tell, a laugh to share.
As Elias walked back to his cottage, the wind began to pick up, carrying the first drops of rain. By the time he reached his front door, the storm had arrived in full force, rain lashing against the windows and thunder rumbling in the distance.
Inside, the air was warm and still. The cottage was small and unassuming, its walls lined with shelves of books and sketches pinned haphazardly to the wood. Elias set his journal on the table and lit the fireplace, the flames casting flickering shadows across the room.
He sat by the fire, the journal open in front of him, pencil in hand. He began to draw again, his hand moving almost of its own accord. The lines formed a face—sharp eyes, a soft smile, and a gaze that held both warmth and distance.
It was her.
Elias stared at the drawing, his chest tightening. He hadn't drawn her in months, hadn't allowed himself to think about her. And yet, here she was, her face staring back at him from the page.
He closed the journal abruptly, tossing it onto the table. Outside, the storm raged on, the wind howling through the cracks in the walls.
Elias leaned back in his chair, his thoughts restless. He'd come to Clearwater to escape, to find peace. But no matter how far he ran, the past always seemed to find him.