The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Four

It's not my world. But it was once.

Briefly. Half a lifetime ago.

I tighten my grip on the wheel. Let the thought pass.

They said Rosebury is a "coastal village rich in character." That it has stories worth capturing. Faces worth freezing in time.

We'll see.

I glance at the satnav. Still an hour to go. The lanes get narrower, the trees taller. I roll the window down an inch. Just enough for the breeze to cut through, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.

There's a quiet out here that doesn't ask anything of me.

No performance. No expectation.

But underneath it-under the hum of tires and rustling leaves-there's a pull I can't quite name. Like I'm headed toward something I won't be ready for.

I brush it off again.

It's just another assignment. Another story to frame. That's all.

After five and a half hours behind the wheel, the road finally softens. The highway has long given way to narrower lanes-winding, uneven, occasionally hemmed in by hedgerows taller than my car. The signal flickers out somewhere between one roundabout and the next. For the last stretch, it's just instinct, a screenshot of a map, and the growing smell of salt in the air.

Then, like a well-kept secret, Rosebury arrives.

It doesn't shout. It doesn't announce itself with neon signs or modern sprawl. It just... appears.

A weathered wooden board greets me at the bend of the road:

"Welcome to Rosebury. Est. 1781."
Beneath it, someone's painted a fox in faded orange. There are wildflowers climbing up the post, like they've been trying to reclaim it for years.

The car slows on its own. My hands hover loosely on the wheel.

Stone cottages with low fences line the road-each one slightly different but undeniably part of a whole. Some with ivy creeping up their chimneys, others with chipped paint and mismatched pots out front. Wooden signs hang above doors: The Silver Loaf, Fisher's Apothecary, Rosebury Books. Hand-lettered. Imperfect.

It's picturesque in a way that would normally feel staged. But here, it feels earned. Lived in.

Real.

To the left, the town slopes toward the sea. I catch glimpses of it through breaks in the cottages-an endless sheet of blue, dappled by light. Boats sway gently in the harbor below, tied to wooden posts like resting animals. Seagulls wheel lazily overhead, too content to scream.

I park on a gravel strip near the square. There's no real traffic. Just a couple of kids on bikes, a woman carrying fresh bread wrapped in paper, and an elderly man trimming his roses without much urgency.

No one stares. No one rushes.

I stepped out of the car, stretching until my spine gave a soft, satisfying crack. The air was sharper here-brisk, clean, tinged with something briny that clung to the back of my throat in a way that was oddly grounding. No horns, no sirens, no background hum of a city that never shuts up. Just... this.

Quiet.

I let the car door fall shut with a low click and stood still for a few seconds, eyes on the sloping road that led toward the sea. The town was bathed in that late-afternoon light that turned everything soft around the edges-cobblestones glowing warm, windows glinting gold. It felt staged. Too perfect. Too peaceful. But something in me resisted the urge to scoff.