Chapter 6: The Southern Wind
The drive south along Highway 17 brought a dramatic shift in landscape and spirit.
The sharp, rigid limestone hills of Virginia gave way to coastal plains, tidal marshes, maritime forests of live oaks draped in Spanish moss, and the vast, shimmering blue expanse of the Atlantic coast.
By late afternoon, the truck pulled into the historic maritime village of Beaufort, North Carolina.
The new home was a weathered, two-story cedar-shingle cottage sitting on a half-acre lot overlooking Taylor’s Creek. Ancient cedar trees shaded the front porch, where two wooden rocking chairs swayed gently in the sea breeze. At the back of the property stood a small, sturdy timber boatyard with a private wooden dock extending into the calm water.
Daniel killed the engine. The air smelled of salt spray, pine resin, and wild honeysuckle.
Lily unbuckled her seatbelt, pressed her face against the glass, and watched a white egret glide gracefully across the marsh grass.
"Water," she whispered—her first spoken word in four days.
Daniel smiled, stepping out of the truck and opening the rear door. He lifted Lily onto his hip, while Leo hopped down, taking a deep breath of the salt air.
"This is our home, kids," Daniel said, gesturing toward the cottage with its white-trimmed windows and open porch. "No gates. No stone balconies. Just the creek and the sand."
May you like
Leo walked toward the dock, his hands in his pockets, feeling the solid wood planks beneath his sneakers. For the first time in months, the tense, watchful posture of the boy began to soften under the warm southern sun.
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