Every mile on the road had felt like an escape, but no amount of distance could truly numb the ache of her heart. The cottage she rented was small, a solitary retreat perched above the rocky shoreline. Its peeling cedar shakes and stubborn front door suggested neglect, but Tessa welcomed the seclusion.
The plumbing rattled like loose bones, but the view from the single window, framed by jagged basalt and tidepools, was breathtaking. Solitude felt safer than sympathy—no one here knew how far she’d fallen. On her first evening at the cottage, she walked the empty strand, cold foam sloshing around her ankles, trying to let the ocean’s rhythm sand down the jagged edges of memory.