I read the rest, my hands tingling around the paper.
I should have left when I had the chance. Now, I fear it is too late for us ... I will be at the lighthouse before the tide turns. Meet me there before the moon is high, and we will go—far from this place, far from the eyes that follow me. If you love me, do not believe what they say.
At the bottom, the signature. Two simple initials.A.B.
The world around me faded. The ruined barn, the sweat and soot clinging to my skin, the exhaustion pressing behind my eyes.
Callum crouched beside me, peering over my shoulder to read the letter. His voice was a low grumble in my ear. “Well, that’s creepy as hell.”
I licked my lips, still staring at the letter. My fingers trembled slightly. “It’s a love letter.”
His gaze flicked to me, something unreadable passing through his expression. “You really believe that?”
I didn’t know, but I wanted to.
I wanted to believe that love—real, desperate, reckless love—left an imprint strong enough to last more than acentury. That even after all this time, after all the loss, some part of her story had survived.
It gave me hope that maybe some part of mine would too.
The sun hunglow over the horizon, bleeding gold and orange across the sky, casting long shadows over the farm. The scent of smoke still clung to the air, but the worst of it had faded, replaced by the rich, earthy scent of damp soil and the cooling breeze rolling off the fields.
I sat on the porch steps of the cottage, turning the letter over in my hands, the ink smudged but still legible. The words had burned themselves into my mind, looping over and over:If you love me, do not believe what they say.
Questions raced through my mind.
Who was she? Who had she been writing to? What had she been running from?
And why, despite everything, did it feel like I understood her?
Movement caught my eye, and I felt Cal approach the cottage. His boots scuffed against the gravel as he crossed the grass, his steps slow, deliberate. I didn’t look up, not even when the porch creaked beneath his weight as he climbed the steps and settled beside me.
Neither of us spoke.
I could see him from the corner of my eye—his forearms streaked with soot, his shirt damp at the collar, a smudge of ash along his jaw. He braced his forearms against his knees, exhaling low and steady, like he was carrying something heavy and trying not to let it show.
I never thanked him for staying.
For being the kind of dad that helped his kid be accountable.
For helping me when he didn’t have to.
But the words felt inadequate and caught somewhere in my throat.
Instead, I lifted the letter slightly, staring at the faded ink. “I think you might be right.”
Callum’s gaze flicked to the paper, then to me. “About what?”
“That it’s a little bit creepy. I’ve read it a few thousand times. I get the feeling she wasrunning. Hiding.” I ran my thumb along the frayed edge. My voice dropped slightly. “Whoever wrote this ... I don’t think she was waiting for someone. She was trying to get away.”
The words tasted strange as I said them, like they held more weight than I understood. Like I was on the edge of something, just shy of grasping it.
Callum was quiet for a long moment. Then his voice came low, thoughtful. “People believe the stories they want to believe. Maybe there are a few more clues in the trunk to help you parse out what happened.”
I frowned slightly, turning the letter over in my hands again.Who was she running from?
I turned my head just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes were shadowed in the fading light, unreadable.
Something between us had shifted. I could feel it, thick and uncertain, settling into the spaces neither of us had the nerve to fill.
