The ferry groan echoes through the cabin, a low, tectonic shifting of steel against the swell. Wren sits perfectly still, her leather briefcase resting on her knees like a shield against the salt-stung wind of the sound. Inside, tucked into a slim manila folder, the separation papers wait with the finality of an ancient tomb. Pieter’s signature is a neat, blue line of acceptance that makes forty years of shared breakfasts feel like a long, polite misunderstanding.
She steps off the gangway into the sharp Nantucket air, the smell of brine and cedar shingles catching in her throat. The cottage is exactly as she remembers, a grey-shingled sentinel huddled against the dune grass. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of dried lavender and the faint, metallic tang of an unused stove. She sets her bags in the parlor, the silence of the house pressing against her ears like deep water.
Wren crosses to the center of the rug, her deck shoes silent on the faded wool. She kneels where the light hits the floor at a sharp, inquisitive angle. Her fingernail catches on the edge of the loose floorboard, and it begins to lift.
