Chapter 13: The Lighthouse Keeper**
The wooden front door of the cottage stood half-open to let in the sea breeze.
Camille stepped onto the terracotta tile floor. The room was simple: a wooden table littered with naval charts, shelves stacked with dog-eared books, and a cast-iron kettle boiling softly on a small stove.
On the back porch overlooking the cliff, a man sat in a high-backed wicker chair, his back to the door. His left arm was in a sling, his silvering hair ruffled by the ocean wind. He was peeling an orange with a pocketknife.
Camille stopped in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat.
The man paused, his knife halting mid-slice. He didn't turn around immediately; he just listened to the familiar, light cadence of her footsteps.
"You're late, little bird," Arthur Hayes said softly. "The ferry docked at two."
"The ferry was on time," Camille said, her voice steady despite the tears pooling in her eyes. "You picked a house on top of a very tall hill."
Arthur turned around. His face was bruised, lined with exhaustion and the scars of a narrow escape, but his eyes were bright, warm, and unmistakable.
He held out his uninjured arm.
May you like
Camille broke into a run, burying her face into his wool sweater. Arthur wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close, resting his chin on the top of her head as the weight of the entire world melted away.
---
