She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Wes Hunter is this island's best example of both, but he's also carrying something heavy that he won't put down. Maybe you're the kind of person who can help him with that, or maybe you're not. Either way, you should know what kind of man you're dealing with."
Before I could respond, she'd turned and disappeared back through the beach plum thicket, leaving me alone on the path with my racing heart and a dozen new questions.
On the rest of the walk back, I saw my host through different eyes. Wes wasn't only the island's caretaker, the equivalent of an apartment manager—he was its silent guardian. He was the person who noticed when chimneys stopped smoking, and neighbors needed help they were too proud to ask for.
Mrs. Lin's words echoed with each step:Maybe you're the kind of person who can help him with that.
By the time I reached the cottage, dusk had settled over the island. Through the windows, I saw the warm glow of lamplight and the shadow of Wes moving around the kitchen.
We'd both settled into our usual evening rhythm when I completed organizing my notes from the day's interviews. The generator hummed its familiar lullaby from the shed, and the wood stove radiated heat, making the living room feel almost cozy.
I'd claimed my usual spot on the couch, surrounded by the comfortable chaos of research materials—notebook open to pages covered in my increasingly illegible handwriting.
I heard movement in the kitchen—not the usual sounds of Wes cleaning up and disappearing to his room, but something more deliberate. The coffee grinder whirred. I tried to focus on my notes but listened to each step of the process.
Wes entered the room carrying a wool blanket draped over one arm and two steaming mugs. "Thought you might want some." He held out one of the mugs, and I inhaled the rich scent of coffee mixed with cinnamon or cardamom.
It was the first time he'd made coffee for me without being asked. It felt like a significant gesture.
"Thanks." I accepted the mug, wrapping my fingers around it. The coffee was perfect.
Instead of disappearing into his room like usual after dinner, Wes settled on the floor in front of the couch, his back against the cushions and long legs stretched toward the wood stove. He'd brought the blanket for himself and spread it across his lap.
We sat together in comfortable silence. The heater cycled on and off with mechanical precision.
A piercing question slipped out of me. "Do you ever miss who you used to be?"
Wes froze. Then, he set his coffee down. HIs voice was barely above a whisper when he answered.
"He's dead. Or maybe only buried."
Years of accumulated grief tugged at his words. The urge to ask who that person had been—what had killed or buried him—rose in my throat, but instinct warned me it was still too early to push.
To my surprise, Wes elaborated on his answer. "Sometimes I think about him. That part of me's gone. Or locked up so tight, I forgot where I put the key."
His voice was flat, but his hands tightened around the mug. I didn't ask who he meant. It wasn't time. "I wonder what he'd think of this place. Whether he'd understand why I stayed."
"What do you think he'd say?"
Wes was quiet for so long that I thought he'd decided not to answer.
"That I'm hiding."
"Are you?"
Wes looked down, thumb circling the rim of his mug. "Maybe. Or maybe I stayed put until the world was quiet enough I could breathe again."
I wanted to say that sixteen years was a long time to spend figuring things out, but I kept the observation to myself. Some kinds of damage required decades to heal, and pushing too hard too fast only reopened old wounds.
"What about you?" He turned the tables. "You ever miss who you used to be?"
The question deserved consideration. Rolling it around in my mind, I searched for honest words. "I think I'm still becoming who I'm supposed to be. The person I was before—he was only practice."
"Must be nice. You're an optimist."
"It's not optimism. It's —" I struggled to find the right words. "I spent a lot of time pretending to be someone I thought others wanted me to be. Now, I'm trying to pay attention to who I am when no one's watching."
Wes studied my face in the lamplight. I knew he saw something in me that I wasn't sure I was ready to reveal.
