Page 38 of The Clifftop Cottage

After years of searching, of following dead ends, of holding on to the quiet, desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, their mother might come back. This was it.

She was alive. She was safe. But she had chosen to be far away.

Not lost. Not taken. Gone.

And there was something about that – about being left intentionally that hurt in a way nothing else ever could.

Leah let out a slow, steady breath, then carefully folded the letter, running her fingers over the creased paper one last time before tucking it back inside its envelope. She held it there for a moment, then placed it back in the glove compartment, shutting it firmly.

This time, she locked it. For good measure.

The school bell rang, a sharp sound cutting through the hush of the car. Leah straightened, blinking back the last of her tears as the gates swung open and a tide of children spilled out, their voices bright against the grey afternoon.

She pasted on a smile, searching for Maisie in the crowd.

14

Gabriel watched the boats drift in and out of the harbour, the tide pulling them along in its steady rhythm. He flexed his fingers, working out the ache from a morning spent helping Jamie replace the fuel pump on his battered fishing boat. The engine had been sluggish for weeks, choking on salt and time, and Jamie, being Jamie, had left it until the last possible moment to do something about it.

Now Gabriel’s hands were stiff – the kind of ache that settled deep in the bones – made worse by the lingering fatigue from the mountain rescue call-out the night before.

When he’d joined the fire brigade, he hadn’t expected to be pulled in quite so many directions: one night scrambling up a hillside to find lost hikers, the next morning elbow-deep in engine grease. But he wouldn’t trade it for anything. The work was good. It mattered.

And, as a bonus, Jamie had thanked him the only way he knew how – with a bottle of whisky now jammed into his coat pocket.

He sauntered along the harbour, past the stacks of creels crusted with barnacles, past the tall, swaying masts of yachts, until he reached the very tip of the pier. The sea breeze rolled in fresh and sharp, filling his lungs, waking him up in a way coffee never could. He stood there for a moment, taking in the vast blue above and the endless, shifting water below.

A sharp chorus of squawks broke the quiet, and he turned in time to see a cluster of swans lifting from the inlet, wings catching the light as they soared towards open sea. Behind him, the narrow channel wound past the fishing boats and the yacht marina, threading its way to town. A small stone bridge arched over it – the usual gathering spot for locals feeding the ducks and swans that floated below, waiting for crumbs.

He smiled to himself. It never got old – this place, this life.

Some people couldn’t wait to leave Rock Cove. They bolted the first chance they got, itching for something bigger, something new. Gabriel had never felt that pull. He’d left for a while, sure. A few holidays here and there, stolen weeks in the sun. But leaving for good? He couldn’t imagine it. Why would he, when everything he could ever want was here?

Mountains. Sea. Space to breathe.

He’d never needed more than that, just a town that felt like home.

He exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the whisky in his pocket, the stiffness in his hands, the sea air cooling his skin.

If he had any sense, he’d go home, catch up on sleep, soak his aches away. But instead, his gaze drifted to the distant cliff at the edge of town. The cottage was just out of sight, tucked away beyond the bend, but from here he could make out the trees that skirted the outer edge of the garden, their branches shifting in the wind, shielding the place from the worst of the northern gales.

But Gabriel didn’t have sense. Not recently. Not since a pair of dark eyes had taken up space in his thoughts, uninvited. Even now, he couldn’t quite admit it to himself.

Besides, he was due a visit to the cottage. Just to make sure everything was alright. Maybe, if Erica allowed, he might check on the boiler – last thing she needed was it packing in before winter settled.

That was all it was. Just looking out for a neighbour.

His tenant. That was all.

At least, that’s what he told himself as he turned and made his way to the cliffs on foot.

By the time he knocked on the door, Erica greeted him in a flurry – eyes wide, expression tight with something that might have been relief or panic. She stepped aside without a word, leading him straight to the kitchen.

By the Rayburn, nestled in a shoebox lined with a blanket, was a small black bundle of fur.

“It came to the cottage last night,” Erica said, tugging her hair into a bun – her hair even wilder than last time. As she adjusted her cardigan it slipped from her shoulder, briefly exposing bare skin. She was still in what looked like night clothes, and he quickly averted his eyes. She pulled the cardigan back up, crossing her arms. “He’s so poorly.”

Gabriel crouched beside the box. The kitten lifted its head weakly, blinking up at him. When he reached out with the back of his finger, it didn’t startle or try to flee – just let out a faint, pitiful mew. He grimaced and picked it up carefully.