Three hours later, salty wind hit my face as I stepped off the bus in Brinkcliffe, a quiet seaside town. No one was waiting. No one knew I was coming.
And the strange thing was—I wasn’t afraid.
I checked my notebook of listings. The first cottage was disappointing—peeling paint, leaky roof, overpriced, and the owner only liked tenants without families. The next two places weren’t better.
By late afternoon, I tried the last address: apartment 3B.
When the door opened, a man about my age with a neat gray beard and kind brown eyes greeted me.
“Mrs. Windborn? Lionel Gardner. We spoke on the phone.”
The apartment was bright and clean—bay window, small functional kitchen, bedroom facing east, and a balcony with a real view of the ocean.
“I’ll take it,” I said immediately.
He laughed. “You didn’t even ask the price.”
“I can afford it,” I answered, surprising myself with how true it felt.
We signed the lease on the spot. He lived across the hall and told me to knock if I needed anything.
When he left, I wandered the rooms slowly. No history here. No ghosts. Just space.
I unpacked. Set Humphrey’s photo on the bedside table. Opened the balcony doors and watched the ocean until darkness came.
That night, I slept deeply—dreamless, healing sleep.
In the morning, gulls cried outside. Fresh bread drifted up from the bakery below.
I checked my phone: 17 missed calls, 23 messages—Percy, Rosie, even Tabitha.
The last message: Mom, we came to your house. Where are you? We’re worried. Call back right now.
They found the letter.
They were panicking—not from love, but because the support system had vanished and the house was being sold.
I muted everything and tucked my phone away.
I had better things to do.
I explored Brinkcliffe—small but lively, friendly greetings on the street, good cafes, quiet beauty. I found the public library, a red-brick Victorian building that smelled like books and polished wood and silence.
At the front desk, a young librarian introduced herself as Audrey Finch. I applied for a library card, and she noticed immediately that I knew my way around libraries.
“Thirty-seven years as a school librarian,” I said, proud.
Her eyes lit up. They needed someone to volunteer for children’s reading hour since their usual reader had broken her hip.
I almost said no.
Then I pictured children in a circle, the magic of stories, and I heard myself say, “I’d love to.”