Page 118 of The Clifftop Cottage

Their son. The boy who would one day become Charles William Grigor, the man remembered by the statue in Caileanbray. History had celebrated him, while the woman who raised him had almost disappeared from it.

And somehow, despite everything whispered about her, she had endured.

Erica folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into the small envelope.

A woman once accused of witchcraft had built a life here anyway.

Not loudly, not triumphantly.

Just … day by day.

Erica understood that kind of survival now.

She looked out across the water, the wind tugging lightly at the sleeve of her jumper.

When she got back inside, she would write the final piece for the blog. The accusations, the rumours, the fragments of truth buried beneath them.

But the box … that part would stay hers.

Some stories were meant to be told.

Others could rest.

She slid the letter back into her pocket, her fingers lingering there for a moment.

Strange to think that a woman who had lived and died in this small corner of the coast had managed to alter the course of Erica’s life some centuries later.

Somewhere in Rock Cove, she thought, their descendants might still be living ordinary lives, carrying Isobel's blood without ever knowing the story.

The sea moved steadily against the cliffs below.

Erica turned back to the cottage.

There was still a story to tell.

Erica stood across from the statue of Charles William Grigor, his iron-cast gaze fixed on the horizon.

In the flat winter light his expression seemed softer somehow. Less severe.

Or maybe that was just what she knew now.

The son of Isobel, a woman once branded a witch … or something close to it.

One who had gone on to build a life powerful enough for the neighbouring town to cast him in iron.

A gentle touch on her shoulder pulled her from the thought.

“Is this him?” Leah asked, nodding at the statue.

“Yeah.”

Leah studied it for a moment, hands tucked into her coat pockets. “He’s certainly more popular these days,” she said. “Thanks to your blog.”

Erica gave a small smile. “I wonder if he’d be mad at me for telling everyone his mother was a witch.”

“But was she really a witch?” Leah asked, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

Erica didn’t answer.