It was strange how a memory could sit untouched for years and then crash into you like a rogue wave. All it took was a scent, or a song, or in this case—a gull's cry and the way the morning light hit the docks.
Cal stood at the edge of Pebblebay's pier, camera in hand, the breeze tugging at his sleeves. The boats bobbed lazily in their moorings, ropes creaking softly. The same place. But not the same boy.
And behind him, walking a careful line along the wooden railing, was the memory of the day he left.
Six Years Earlier
The sky had been the color of old postcards that morning, faded blue with a hint of yellow near the edges. Cal had come down the hill with a backpack slung over his shoulder and a knot the size of a storm in his gut.
Emery had been at the café early that day, baking scones and avoiding the clock. Everyone in town knew he was leaving—it was hard not to. Pebblebay was the sort of place where secrets lasted about as long as a sneeze.
She met him on the back steps, flour on her forearms, hair pulled back, heart in her throat.
"So this is it," she'd said, handing him a thermos of coffee and a small, wrapped bundle. Scone. His favorite—lemon lavender.
"Just for a while," he said, trying to believe it. "A year. Maybe two."
Her eyes narrowed. "You mean forever, don't you?"
"No," he said. "I mean—I need to go. I need to find out who I am outside of here."
"You're not lost, Cal," she whispered. "You just don't like standing still."
He stepped closer. "Come with me."
It had been impulsive. Desperate. He didn't plan on saying it, but there it was.
Emery blinked. "And go where? With what money? My mother just died, Cal. The café—this town—needs me. I need me."
"You could have come."
She had smiled, sad and sharp. "Don't ask me to chase you when you don't even know where you're going."
The last thing he remembered was the way her hand lingered on the strap of his backpack. Just a second. Then it was gone.
Now
Cal closed his eyes.
He had been a fool. A well-meaning, restless fool who thought love would wait while he wandered the world.
"Thought I might find you here."
Emery's voice pulled him back. She approached with two mugs, both steaming. She handed one to him, then leaned on the rail beside him, watching the water.
He glanced at her. "You remember the day I left?"
"I remember the sky more than anything," she said. "It looked like it didn't want you to go either."
He chuckled, low. "I should've stayed."
"You wouldn't have been ready," she replied, not unkindly. "You were already gone long before you packed your bag."
They stood together in silence, watching a gull swoop low across the tide.
"I used to think that day broke us," Cal said.
Emery looked down into her cup, then out toward the lighthouse.
"Maybe it did," she said. "Or maybe it just… paused us. Gave us time to become people who could meet again."
Cal turned to her. "And do what?"
She didn't answer right away. Just let the wind carry the moment.
"I don't know yet," she finally said. "But I don't think we're finished."
He nodded, heart thudding in a quiet rhythm he hadn't felt in years.
"Can I show you some of the photos I took?" he asked. "Not the ones for work. The ones I didn't post. The ones I kept."
Emery looked at him, eyes soft.
"You brought them with you?"
"I never really let them go," he said. "They're all in my journal. In the margins."
She smiled, and it landed somewhere in his chest like sunlight.
"Then show me," she said. "We'll start there."
And as they turned from the edge of the dock and walked back toward the café—mugs in hand, memory trailing behind them like footprints in sand—it was clear that while some stories get interrupted, the really good ones always find their way back.