Page 45 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
I finish the bottle’s last pull, hand it back without a word.
He corks it. Stands. “She’s not some puzzle to solve, Aeron. She’s a storm. You don’t conquer storms. You brace and wait it out. You survive.”
The wind shifts, sweeping his coat sleeve as he slings it over his shoulder. “She’s at the cliffs. Been there a while. Might still be there, if you hurry.”
I don’t say thank you.
But he knows.
The path to the lighthouse cliffs winds through the oldest part of town—the woods that smell like damp pine and memory. The branches claw overhead like the forest doesn’t want to let the sky out of its grasp. The moon breaks through in slivers, striping the path in pale silver like something out of a story that never ends well.
My boots crunch over broken shells and moss-slick gravel. The wind hisses through the trees like it’s warning me away.
But I keep going.
Always do.
The clearing opens up without fanfare. Just space and stars and the sound of the world breathing deep. The cliff juts out like a fist into the ocean, jagged and stubborn. Below, waves crash with slow, deliberate fury. Each pull of the tide drags the rocks like it’s trying to pull the whole damn island under.
She’s there.
Back to me. Hood up. Camera on a tripod pointed skyward. The shutter clicks in timed intervals, like a heartbeat. Like she’s trying to catch something before it disappears.
Her breath plumes white in the dark. Her arms are wrapped around herself like the wind’s said too much and she doesn’t want to hear the rest.
She doesn’t turn when I step closer.
“You always were the night owl,” I say softly.
“I like the stars better than people,” she replies, not missing a beat.
“Stars don’t talk back.”
“Exactly.”
I move beside her, hands in my pockets. Close, but not touching. The air is electric—cold, yes, but more than that. Tense. Thick with things we haven’t said.
“What are you shooting?”
She nods toward the sky. “Andromeda’s out. I’ve been chasing her since Oregon.”
“Catch her yet?”
“Almost. Maybe.”
We’re quiet a long while.
The wind tangles her hair. Mine, too. The sea below moans like a wound.
“You scared?” she asks suddenly.
Her voice is softer than it’s been in weeks.
“Always,” I say. “Aren’t you?”
“Terrified.”
“Of what?”
