It began with a drip.
Not a steady, ignorable one, but the insistent, splattering kind that echoed off porcelain like the ticking of a bomb. Lena stood in the narrow hallway of the cottage bathroom, arms crossed, glaring at the sink as if the weight of her frustration could plug the leak.
It hadn't been there yesterday.
Or maybe it had, and she'd been too distracted to notice—too lost in the silence of the house, in the rhythm of memories, in the way everything felt like it might dissolve if she moved too quickly.
She turned off the valve under the sink, hoping it would buy her a few hours of quiet. Instead, the knob spun uselessly in her hand.
Perfect.
Her phone buzzed where it sat on the kitchen counter. She'd texted the number listed on the faded "For Cottage Repairs" magnet stuck to the fridge, not expecting a reply for hours—maybe not at all. But there it was.
"Be there in 10. -Eli"
Lena stared at the message for a moment, her stomach giving an odd twist. She hadn't realized the handyman was him. She wasn't sure what she had expected—someone older, maybe, or someone less… unsettling.
It was just a leak, she reminded herself. Just a simple repair.
Still, she ran a brush through her hair, then changed from her paint-stained tee into a soft chambray shirt. Not because she cared what he thought. Just… because.
When the knock came—three quick raps—she opened the door without hesitation this time.
Eli stood on the porch, toolbox in hand, expression unreadable. His dark T-shirt clung to his frame in a way that suggested he'd been working since dawn. A smear of dust crossed one cheekbone. His eyes flicked briefly down her figure before returning to her face.
"Morning," he said simply.
"Bathroom's this way," she replied, stepping aside.
He moved past her, brushing close. His scent—pine, earth, something faintly metallic—lingered behind him. Lena stayed near the kitchen, arms folded, pretending to check her phone as he worked.
For ten minutes, only the soft clink of tools and the occasional grunt broke the silence.
"You didn't mention the valve's stripped," Eli called from the bathroom.
"I didn't know," Lena said, stepping into the doorway.
He was crouched low, sleeves pushed up, revealing the cords of his forearms as he twisted something free. His head tilted toward her, eyebrow raised.
"You live here now, right?"
"I… don't know yet." She leaned against the doorframe. "I'm figuring things out."
He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. "Leaky pipes have a way of rushing decisions."
"Is that how you ended up here? A plumbing emergency?"
This earned her a short, dry laugh. "Something like that."
A silence settled. Not the comfortable kind they'd shared in the garden, but something more taut—strung tight between curiosity and guardedness.
Lena shifted, suddenly aware of how small the bathroom was, how close they were standing. She cleared her throat. "You always fix things in silence?"
He looked up then, eyes meeting hers with a sharpness that caught her breath.
"Most people don't like a man talking while he's got a wrench in his hands."
"You think I'm most people?"
That paused him. His gaze lingered on her a beat longer than necessary before he turned back to the pipes.
"No," he said finally. "I don't."
Her heart ticked faster. She hated how aware she was of him—of his hands, his presence, the way he filled the room without trying. She hated even more how part of her wanted him to stay.
Eli tightened the final bolt, stood, and washed his hands in the now-silent sink. "Should hold for now. But the whole fixture's old. You'll need to replace it if you stay long."
Lena nodded, pretending that the room didn't feel ten degrees warmer. "Thanks. For coming so fast."
He wiped his hands on a rag and met her gaze again. "I live nearby. You ever need anything—tools, help—you can call."
Her lips curved faintly. "You offering professional services? Or just to damsels in plumbing distress?"
His eyes crinkled, just barely. "You don't strike me as someone who needs saving."
He turned and walked toward the door. Lena followed, a strange ache forming in her chest.
"Eli," she said, stopping him just before he stepped outside.
He looked back, waiting.
She opened her mouth, then hesitated. What was she going to say? That she hadn't expected someone like him? That she felt something strange and unwelcome every time he looked at her like that?
"…Thank you," she finished.
He nodded once, eyes unreadable. "See you around, Lena."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone again.
But the silence didn't feel the same anymore.
The breeze off the ocean carried the scent of salt and pine as Lena made her way down the uneven cobbled path toward the small hardware store near the center of town. The sun peeked through drifting clouds, warm on her back. Though the streets were quiet, the gentle hum of life was everywhere—children's laughter in the distance, a dog barking at waves, and wind chimes singing from porch eaves.
She passed a bakery with its door wide open, the smell of fresh bread luring her to pause. A cheerful woman behind the counter caught her eye and gave a wave, flour dusting her apron. Lena smiled, nodding politely before moving on. Small towns were like this—people noticed, people remembered. And they certainly noticed newcomers.
The hardware store sat nestled between a bait shop and a shuttered book exchange, its sign faded but legible: Turner's Tools & Timber.
Lena stepped inside, and the cool air greeted her, tinged with sawdust and something like cedar. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with tools, paint cans, and nails. A wooden counter stretched across the far side of the shop, and behind it, hunched over a ledger, was the man from the other day—the man with the wary eyes and calloused hands.
Eli Turner.
He didn't look up right away, but she recognized the slope of his shoulders, the thick forearms dusted with tiny scars, and the quiet that seemed to settle around him like a second skin.
"I need a hammer," Lena said, breaking the silence.
Eli glanced up, eyebrows slightly raised. "Painter needs a hammer?"
His voice was rough, a low timbre that felt almost like a challenge—but not unkind. He shut the ledger gently and walked around the counter.
Lena offered a faint smile. "More like… woman who just bought a house with a porch that's falling apart."
His eyes flicked to hers briefly. "That'll do it."
He walked with measured steps down an aisle, gesturing for her to follow. "You'll want something decent if you're fixing support beams. Not just hanging pictures."
"I'm not completely helpless, you know," Lena said, reaching for a mid-sized hammer, only to have him take it from her hand gently.
"I didn't say you were." He inspected it, then handed it back. "This one's better balanced."
She took it, feeling its weight. "Thanks."
He nodded. That seemed to be the end of it.
But she didn't want it to end.
"So… are you the Turner in the shop name?"
He hesitated. "One of them."
"Just one of you here today?"
His mouth quirked slightly. "Just me now."
The answer was short, final. But there was something behind it—loss, perhaps, or distance. She didn't press. She knew that tone. She lived in it.
She took her hammer, a small set of nails, and a roll of blue painter's tape to the counter. Eli rang them up in silence, tapping amounts into the register. The quiet stretched between them, but it wasn't awkward.
When she handed over her card, he paused.
"Cash only."
Lena blinked. "Oh. Of course it is."
He watched her fumble in her bag, cheeks coloring. She had cash—somewhere.
"Don't worry about it," he said, after a second. "Just bring it by later."
She met his eyes. They were a stormy blue-gray, steady and unreadable. "Are you always this trusting?"
"Not really," he said. "But I figure if you're trying to fix your own porch, you're not the type to run."
Lena nodded, touched. "I'll be back tomorrow. Promise."
He gave a simple shrug and turned away, returning to the ledger.
Outside, the wind tugged her hair as she walked back to the cottage, the hammer swinging in her hand. Her heart felt lighter, though she wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the smell of the sea, the way the town seemed to welcome her without words—or maybe it was the quiet carpenter with shadows behind his eyes and hands that had known both creation and pain.
As the day wore on, Lena spent hours on the porch, tearing away old boards, prying up rusted nails, and repainting cracked balusters. The sun warmed her skin, and for the first time in a long while, she felt tired in a way that came from effort—not grief.
She paused only when she caught movement at the edge of her property—an old woman, walking a shaggy dog. The woman slowed when she saw her.
"You're the Hart girl," she said, cupping a hand against the sunlight.
Lena straightened. "Yes. Lena Hart."
"I remember your mother. You look like her."
It was a phrase she'd heard many times in her life, but it carried a strange weight here, in Dawnridge. As if her mother's memory lived on these streets.
"She loved it here," Lena replied.
The woman nodded. "We all did. Shame what happened."
Before Lena could ask what she meant, the woman continued on, her dog sniffing along the fence.
The words stuck with her. Shame what happened. Did she mean the accident that killed her mother? Or something more?
As the sun dipped low, casting golden light across the town, Lena sat on the top porch step and stared out over the ocean's edge. She still didn't know what she was doing here—not really. But for the first time since arriving, the silence felt like something she could share. Not something she had to fight.
And though she hadn't expected to notice him, Eli Turner lingered in her mind—the way he said little, the way he saw much.
She would return to the shop tomorrow. And maybe—just maybe—he'd tell her more.
By the time Lena reached the ridge overlooking the cove, the sky had shifted into muted hues of lavender and soft pink. The sea glimmered like it had secrets to tell, and maybe, Lena thought, she was finally ready to listen.
Eli was already there.
He stood by the railing with one hand gripping the wood, the other in his pocket, and the fading light casting long shadows across his broad frame. He hadn't heard her yet. For a moment, she watched him — the quiet strength in his posture, the solitude wrapped around him like a second skin. There was something about the way he looked at the ocean, like it was both a wound and a balm.
"I almost didn't come," she said, her voice barely above the wind.
Eli turned. "But you did."
A smile, tentative and real, tugged at her lips. "Yeah. I did."
He stepped back from the railing and nodded toward the wooden bench behind him. "You want to sit?"
Lena hesitated, then joined him, careful not to sit too close. The air between them crackled with an unspoken something — not tension exactly, but the weight of two lives carrying more silence than they should.
"You come here a lot?" she asked, folding her hands in her lap.
"When I need to think." He paused. "Which is often."
Lena laughed softly. "Same."
They sat in silence for a while, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable. The kind that felt like it had purpose.
"I saw some of your work," Eli said finally. "At the gallery downtown. The one with the rain-soaked street and the red umbrella. It stuck with me."
Her throat tightened. That painting was one of the last she'd done before Daniel died. "I called it Before the Storm."
He nodded slowly. "It felt like waiting for something you didn't want to come."
Lena glanced at him, surprised. "That's exactly what I meant."
Their eyes met. Something shifted.
"You haven't painted since?" he asked.
She looked down. "No. I've tried, but the brush doesn't move the way it used to. It's like I forgot how to breathe on canvas."
Eli leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "Sometimes things break. Sometimes people do. Doesn't mean they can't be… rebuilt."
She tilted her head. "Is that the carpenter in you talking?"
"Maybe," he said with a faint smile. "But I think it's the man."
A warm breeze drifted by, carrying the salt of the sea and something gentler. Lena took a breath.
"I was married," she said quietly, the words heavy but necessary. "He died last year. Suddenly. A car crash. I wasn't with him. I should've been."
Eli's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away. "That's not on you."
"I know. But it feels like it is."
He looked out at the ocean again. "Grief's like that. It tricks you into blaming yourself for things you couldn't control. Makes you think love should've been enough to stop time, to stop fate."
Lena swallowed hard. "Did you lose someone?"
His shoulders tensed. "My mother. I was sixteen. Cancer. My dad checked out after that. Not physically, just… everything else."
"I'm sorry."
He shrugged, but his voice was low. "It shapes you. That kind of loss. Makes you build walls you don't even notice until someone's standing outside them knocking."
She turned to him, their faces just inches apart now. "Am I knocking, Eli?"
His gaze held hers. "Yeah. I think you are."
The air pulsed between them. Lena didn't move. She didn't have to. Somehow, this was enough — the shared pain, the mutual understanding, the possibility of more.
After a while, he stood. "Come on. I'll walk you back."
She rose, brushing her fingers against the side of the bench. "You always this gentlemanly?"
He grinned — not wide, but warm. "Only for the ones who knock."
They walked side by side, the sounds of the evening surrounding them — the chirping of crickets, the hush of waves, the soft rhythm of two people who had carried enough sorrow for a lifetime… and maybe, just maybe, were ready to lay some of it down
The next morning, the sky was overcast, casting a soft, silvery sheen over Dawnridge. Lena stood at the edge of her porch, coffee in hand, studying the repairs she'd made the day before. It wasn't perfect—some of the new boards didn't quite match the old ones, and the paint was still tacky in places—but it was hers. Her effort. Her beginning.
After breakfast, she slid the owed cash into her wallet and walked toward the center of town. The breeze off the ocean was cooler today, tinged with rain. Locals moved with purpose—stacking crates, sweeping sidewalks, setting out umbrellas outside cafés. The rhythm of coastal life was steady, unhurried, comforting in its predictability.
Turner's Tools & Timber was quieter than the day before. Lena pushed open the door, the small bell overhead ringing out like a call. Eli looked up from behind the counter, a pencil behind one ear and a small wooden carving in his hand.
"I came to pay my debt," she said, holding up the bills.
He nodded, setting the carving aside. "I figured you would."
She placed the money on the counter. "Thanks again for yesterday. Most places would've told me to take a hike."
He gave a half-shrug. "Most places don't know the difference between running and trying."
She tilted her head. "Do you always speak in riddles?"
"Only when I'm trying not to say too much."
Lena laughed softly. "Well, mission accomplished."
She glanced at the carving he'd been holding—a delicate piece of driftwood shaped into a small bird mid-flight.
"That's beautiful," she said.
He followed her gaze but said nothing.
"You carve?"
"Sometimes. Keeps my hands busy when they're not building something."
She reached out, fingertips brushing the smooth curve of the bird's wing. "It feels like it's about to fly away."
"Maybe it already has," he murmured, almost to himself.
Their eyes met. For a moment, the shop faded, and it was just them—two people carrying too much and pretending not to. Lena broke the gaze first.
"I passed an older woman yesterday, walking a dog. She said she knew my mother."
Eli's expression shifted. "Was it Mrs. Everly?"
"Gray hair, sharp eyes, little white terrier?"
He nodded. "That's her. She knows everyone in town. And everything, if you believe her."
"She said something strange. Something about it being a shame… what happened."
Eli's jaw tightened. "Old towns are full of stories, Lena. Not all of them are fair."
"But some of them are true."
He didn't respond right away. Then: "Your mother left Dawnridge suddenly. People noticed. They talked. Years went by, and most forgot."
"But not everyone."
"No," he admitted. "Not everyone."
She stepped closer. "Did you know her?"
His hands tensed against the counter. "Only a little. I was just a kid. But I remember she used to walk by this shop… always with paint on her hands."
That image lodged in her heart like a stone—her mother, younger, vibrant, dreaming. Before the distance. Before the silence.
"Do you know why she left?" Lena asked softly.
Eli hesitated. "No. But I think someone does."
"Who?"
He looked at her like he was weighing something. "Try the library. Ask for Ruth."
"The librarian?"
"She was your mother's best friend once. If anyone has the pieces, it's her."
Lena absorbed this, her heart beating faster—not with fear, but with the thrill of possibility. Of answers. Of truth.
"Thank you," she said.
Eli nodded, picking up the carving again. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"
"No," she said. "Not this time."
She turned to leave, but paused at the door. "You carve birds because they fly, don't you?"
His smile was faint, wistful. "No. I carve them because they always come home."
Outside, the wind had picked up. Storm clouds loomed in the distance, but Lena didn't mind. She had a new direction now—a thread to follow, a story to chase. Her mother's past, buried in the sands of Dawnridge, was waiting to be uncovered.
And at the heart of it all, Lena couldn't help but feel that Eli Turner, for all his silence and guarded edges, was a part of it too.