Page 70 of The Story Between Us

She didn’t sleep for a long time.

The cursor blinked. Waiting. Patient.

Unlike Nate, who stood at the window. Outside, fog pressed against the windows like something trying to get in. The lake had disappeared entirely—no dock, no water, no far shore. Just gray. The world had shrunk to this room, this desk, this blinking cursor that refused to become words.

9:13 a.m.

She should be here by now—coffee from the Brew, maple bacon bar from Edie’s, that smile that made him forget he was supposed to be working.

But the words wouldn’t come.

He’d brought his computer to the recliner in the living room and lit a fire at six a.m. because he couldn’t sleep. The flames had died to embers now, Huck and Finn curled in their beds by the hearth, occasionally lifting their heads toward the door, then settling back down with disappointed sighs.

Even the dogs knew something was wrong.

He sat down and typed.

Aldric stepped through the wall and…

Deleted it.

The wall had been watching for three hundred years. Now, it seemed to dissolve, like⁠—

Deleted that too.

He’d reread the chapter he’d written yesterday twice now, hoping for yesterday’s spark.

Instead, he couldn’t stop thinking about the candlelight in her hazel eyes. And now he couldn’t find his way back into the story. Couldn’t hear the voice that had been so clear twenty-four hours ago.

He checked his phone. No texts. No missed calls. Just the time: 9:52 a.m.

What if she wasn’t coming?

The thought hit him low, and the ripples wouldn’t stop spreading.

What if he’d scared her away?

He pushed back from the desk. Crossed to the window. The fog was so thick he could barely see Lila’s cottage next door—just a vague shape, no lights visible, no movement.

She could be in there right now, throwing clothes in a suitcase.

She could be gone already.

Stop it. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass. She was just late. It didn’t mean anything.

But the page was still blank. And her sudden absence seemed louder than anything he’d felt in three years of silence.

The cursor blinked.

The fog pressed.

Nothing.

The clock on his laptop ticked over to 9:58. He was about to close the document—give up, go make his own coffee, stop waiting like a dog at the door—when Huck’s head shot up. Ears pricked toward the door.

A moment later, Finn scrambled to his feet, tail already wagging, nails clicking on the hardwood as he trotted toward the entry.

Nate’s heart slammed against his ribs.