Beneath a painted sky
A small coastal town in Oregon, known for its breathtaking sunsets and charming, tight-knit community.
The wind carried the scent of salt and memory as Clara Hart drove into the small coastal town of Haven Bay. The ocean stretched endlessly to her left, crashing against the rocky cliffs like it was trying to speak. In her rearview mirror, the towering skyline of New York City was already a distant ghost, swallowed by the miles of winding roads and fading autumn leaves.
She hadn’t been back in ten years.
The town hadn’t changed much. Same crooked street signs. Same weatherworn buildings, their facades softened by sea air and time. The same old bakery with the sun-bleached awning. Her heart twisted at the sight of it all—familiar, yet foreign.
Clara slowed her car as she reached the heart of town. She passed the art supply shop Mrs. Dorsey had owned since Clara was a kid. A hand-painted sign hung in the window: Welcome Home, Clara. Her chest tightened. Somehow, news traveled faster here than anywhere else.
She turned onto Windmere Lane, the road lined with cedar trees that led up to her grandmother’s house. Or rather, what had been her grandmother’s house. The two-story cottage sat quietly beneath the sky, wrapped in ivy, its shutters flaking white paint. It looked just as it had in her dreams.
Clara pulled into the gravel driveway and cut the engine. For a long moment, she sat still, hands on the steering wheel, unwilling to open the door. The house was a time capsule. A sanctuary. A tomb.
She stepped out, gravel crunching beneath her boots, and approached the front porch. Her fingers brushed the wood railing—faded, but solid. She remembered sitting here as a little girl, painting sunsets while her grandmother read poetry aloud.
The key was still under the third flowerpot, just like always.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender and dust. The living room was filled with sunlight, casting warm pools on the hardwood floor. Her grandmother’s rocking chair sat in the corner, unmoved. Clara dropped her bag by the door and walked slowly through the space, her fingers trailing along the furniture, the books, the picture frames that hadn’t been touched in months.
When she reached the kitchen, a note pinned to the fridge caught her eye.
"Clara – Welcome home. If you need anything, you know where to find me. – Eli"
Clara stared at the note. Eli Morgan.
The name rippled through her like a forgotten melody. He had been her childhood friend—the boy next door with kind eyes and a crooked smile. They’d spent summers chasing fireflies and winters building snow forts. Then high school happened, and life happened, and she had left without saying goodbye.
She hadn’t heard his name in years.
Clara set the note down and walked to the window above the sink. From there, she could just make out the old Morgan house across the field—tucked behind a row of pine trees, its roof sagging a little more than she remembered. Smoke curled gently from the chimney.
A decade had passed, but some things, it seemed, refused to change.
She unpacked slowly that afternoon, one room at a time. Each item she uncovered—an old painting, a worn book, a chipped mug—was a relic of a life she’d once known. She placed everything with care, as though reassembling pieces of her grandmother’s memory would somehow make the loss hurt less.
By late afternoon, the sun had dipped low in the sky, casting golden light over the porch. Clara stood with a mug of tea in her hands, wrapped in a thick cardigan, watching as the wind rippled through the grass. A small voice drifted through the air, faint at first, then clearer.
A little girl was laughing.
Clara peered around the porch post. A child—maybe six or seven—darted through the field with a stick in one hand and a red scarf trailing behind her like a comet. Behind her, a tall figure followed at a slower pace.
Eli.
Clara’s breath caught.
He was broader than she remembered, his frame solid with years of labor. His hair was a little d
