The soup was warm, comforting in a way Chloe hadn't realized she needed. She ate slowly, each spoonful grounding her. Dr. Lennox sat across from her, nursing his own bowl, the silence between them not uncomfortable, but heavy with things unsaid.
After a few minutes, he spoke again, quietly, like he was reaching back into something that still ached.
"I used to live in the city. Big hospital. Long hours. My wife used to say the only thing I loved more than surgery was proving I could out-stubborn God."
Chloe looked up. His smile was faint, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"We had two kids. Sophia and Caleb. Twins. Bright. Loud. Full of questions I never had time to answer." He stirred his soup, as if trying to find the right words at the bottom of the bowl. "One night, my wife took them out for ice cream. I was supposed to come, but I stayed behind for a last-minute consult. They never made it home."
Chloe's breath caught. She didn't speak—there was nothing to say that could touch that kind of pain.
"Drunk driver," he said simply. "Ran a red light. Hit them head-on. Killed the kids instantly. My wife lasted three days in the ICU. I operated. I thought—" He stopped himself, his jaw tightening. "I thought I could fix it. Like it was just another procedure. But I couldn't."
Silence pressed in.
"I left the hospital not long after that. Couldn't walk through those halls without seeing ghosts. I found this place by accident. A friend owned the cottage. Said I could stay until I figured out what to do next." He gave a small, humorless chuckle. "That was eight years ago."
Chloe stared at him, throat tight. "You've been alone ever since?"
He nodded. "Mostly. A few patients here and there. I volunteer at the local clinic when they need help. But… the truth is, after a while, it's easier not to let people close. Easier not to risk losing again."
Chloe looked down at her hands. "I know what that feels like. Wanting to disappear so you can't be hurt again."
His eyes met hers, full of unspoken understanding. "Yeah. But disappearing doesn't heal you. It just buries the wound deeper."
Chloe swallowed. "Why did you take me in?"
He paused, then answered gently, "Because the look in your eyes when I saw you in that hospital… it was the same one I saw in the mirror after I lost everything. I couldn't ignore it. I didn't want to."
The weight of his words settled deep in her chest. She hadn't realized how much she needed someone to see her—not as broken, not as weak, but simply as a person worth saving.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He reached across the table, his hand a steady anchor. "You don't have to tell me everything now. Or ever. But while you're here, this house is yours too. And you don't have to face this alone."
For the first time in days, Chloe felt something warm push through the cold fog that had wrapped around her heart.
Hope.
She nodded, blinking back tears. "I think I'd like to stay a while."
"Good," he said, his voice low but sure. "Then we'll figure it out together. One piece at a time."
Outside, the sea kept moving, endless, unpredictable, alive.
And for the first time, Chloe didn't feel like she was drowning in it.