Page 105 of The Clifftop Cottage

Not of ghosts. Of repeating. Of being the one who left.

The urge to change something prickled under her skin.

She stood and crossed to the window.

The garden had disappeared into shadow, the old stone wall barely visible now.

She couldn't see the carvings anymore.

She didn't need to.

If there had once been two sets carved, then perhaps something else had been left behind. Something small. Something practical. A token. A letter. A fragment.

Evidence.

A small, insistent hope nudged its way through her.

Lucky leapt onto the windowsill, tail flicking.

She looked down at him.

“Don’t,” she said quietly. “Don’t tell me not to.”

He blinked.

The sensible part of her knew this was exactly what Leah meant.

The other part – the part that had to follow threads – could not leave a seam unexplored.

She turned away from the window.

Paced once.

Twice.

Sat again.

If there was nothing, she would know.

If there was something …

Either way, it would surely quiet the noise in her mind?

Not running, but checking.

She reached for the torch on the counter.

Her hand hovered at the door latch for a fraction of a second.

Still hers.

“I’m not leaving,” she said under her breath, though whether to Leah, to Maisie, or to herself, she couldn’t say.

The wind hit her sharply as she stepped outside, carrying salt and the low rumble of the sea. Clouds dragged across the moon, plunging the garden into moving shadow.

The stone wall loomed pale and patient, wrapping around the cottage as it had for centuries.

She found the small trowel by the back step where she had abandoned it days earlier.