The drive south felt longer than the map promised, but by late afternoon she reached the cottage—a squat, weather‑beaten box with peeling blue paint and a roof patched in places with mismatched shingles. It wasn’t pretty, yet the ocean lay only a short walk away, and that was enough.
Inside, the place smelled of salt and old wood. A threadbare sofa faced a small window that framed a strip of gray water. The kitchen held a chipped kettle, a half‑working fridge, and little else. Noemi tossed her bag on the floor, opened the back door, and let the sea air roll through every room.