The sky had cleared by afternoon, casting a pale golden light over Pebblebay. The kind of light that made everything look like it belonged in a photograph. Emery wiped down the last table by the window, watching as Cal stepped outside with his camera dangling from one hand. He hadn't said where he was going—just that he'd be back before sunset.
She didn't ask him to stay. And he didn't ask her to wait.
That was how things had always been between them. No promises. Just moments. Some fleeting. Some stubborn enough to linger like salt in the air.
Emery reached beneath the counter and pulled out an old wooden box. The lid stuck a little, like it always did, as if it were reluctant to open again. Inside: a bundle of letters tied with sea-green twine. All from him. Pages smelling faintly of old ink and ocean air, corners worn soft from rereading.
The last one had no return address.
"I saw a lighthouse today on the coast of Croatia. It reminded me of home. Of you. Funny how light travels so far just to guide someone else back."
She never wrote back. Not because she didn't want to. But because she didn't know where he was anymore. Or if he was still the boy who used to trace poems on foggy café windows with his finger.
The bell above the door jingled.
"Sorry, we're closed till tomorrow—" Emery began, before turning to find a much older face than she expected.
"Still kicking people out before they've had your scones?" said June Marlowe, her late mother's oldest friend. She was wrapped in her usual sea-windproof coat and carried a basket of clippings from her garden.
Emery grinned. "Only the ones who don't say please."
June set the basket down and leaned on her cane. "Saw Calvin Hart walking the beach path. Thought maybe my eyes had finally gone, but no. That boy's back."
"Looks like it," Emery said.
June gave a slow nod. "He was always a restless one. Like a tide—always pulling away before you could hold on."
Emery didn't answer. June watched her for a long moment, then reached into the basket.
"I brought lavender for your window boxes. And thyme. Thought the café could use a bit of fresh beginnings."
That made Emery smile. "Thanks, June."
As the older woman left, Emery caught sight of Cal returning down the road, camera swinging at his hip. He paused by the window, catching her eye for a heartbeat before pushing the door open.
"Thought maybe I'd missed you," he said, running a hand through his wind-tossed hair.
"You didn't."
They stood in the quiet hum of early evening. Emery hesitated, then reached under the counter and slid the bundle of letters across the wood.
"I kept them," she said. "Every one."
Cal's breath caught slightly. He picked up the bundle as if it might crumble in his hands.
"I didn't think you would," he said softly.
"I didn't think you'd stop writing."
A long silence. Not sharp. Just... full.
"I didn't know how to say goodbye," Cal admitted.
Emery looked at him. "So you just didn't."
He nodded, eyes low.
"I wanted to go everywhere," he said. "See the world. I thought I had to leave everything behind to do that. But no matter where I went, every sunrise just reminded me of you."
Her heart clenched, traitorously. Soft and sore. Bittersweet.
"You don't get to just show up and say that like it's nothing," she said, voice trembling.
"I know," he replied, stepping closer. "I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm just... hoping you'll let me be here. Even for a little while."
The light through the café window stretched long across the floor. Emery looked at him—not the boy she used to know, not quite. But someone quieter, older. Maybe even someone who finally understood the cost of leaving.
"You can start by helping me plant some lavender," she said, nodding to the basket June left behind.
Cal blinked. Then smiled. "I'm good with dirt."
"I remember," she said. "You always were."
Outside, the sun dipped toward the horizon, setting the sky on fire. And inside the café, something warm began to return to the space between two hearts—tentative, but steady.
Like a lighthouse beam. One flicker at a time.