The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Four

Instead, I walked. Slowly. Letting my boots thud against the stone, past flower boxes and iron gates, peeling paint and worn doorsteps. There was a rhythm to it. The kind of silence that wasn't really silent at all-it held stories, secrets, footsteps. I imagined a thousand little lives lived inside these houses and didn't let myself linger on the thought.

But I didn't go far.

Something about the stillness made me aware of myself. Of how out of place I probably looked in my black coat and tired London edge.

I turned back, headed for the car again, the cold metal handle grounding me.

Then, finally, I pulled out my phone.

One bar of signal.

Theo answered on the third ring, voice clipped and familiar. "You're here."

"Yeah. Where's the cottage you booked for me?" I leaned against the car door, glancing around the empty square. "You said something about keeping me out of the inn circus?"

"Figured you'd want the solitude," he said. "It's on Chapel Hill Road. Number Twelve. You'll pass an old church on the way up. It's small, two floors, has a green gate. Lauren left the key in the lockbox."

I nodded, more to myself than him. "Alright. Heading there now."

"Drop your bags. Meet us at the harbor if you're up for it. If not, tomorrow."

I hung up without saying much else and slid back into the driver's seat.

The engine rumbled to life, and I eased the car into gear, steering toward the hill Theo mentioned. The roads were narrow, almost too quaint for the car, but I didn't rush. The kind of quiet that clung to this town made you feel like speeding would be a sin.

Sure enough, the cottage came into view-ivy-covered stone, mossy tiles on the roof, a green gate hanging slightly askew. Something about it looked like it had been waiting for someone. Or maybe I was just projecting.

I parked just outside and stayed there for a moment, hands on the wheel.

Then, without a word, I got out, grabbed my gear, and walked toward the door.

The green gate gave a gentle creak as I nudged it open, gravel crunching beneath my boots. The cottage stood quietly, not imposing, just... present. Ivy traced lazy lines along the stone walls, and small pots of thyme and lavender sat on the sill, forgotten or lovingly placed-I couldn't tell which.

I found the lockbox beside the door, punched in the code Theo had sent earlier, and retrieved the key. The door opened easily. No drama. Just the soft sigh of hinges and the immediate scent of lemon polish and old wood.

Inside, it was surprisingly warm. Clean. Lived-in, but not cluttered. Someone had taken care to make it welcoming. Neutral throws draped over a soft beige couch. Wooden shelves lined with books and hand-thrown pottery. Light filtered in through lace-trimmed curtains, brushing everything in gold.

I dropped my bags near the staircase and walked straight through the living space, my fingers brushing the back of a chair as I passed. The kitchen was tucked into one corner-whitewashed cabinets, pale oak counters, a kettle already placed next to the stove like it knew I'd need it. It was the kind of kitchen that made you want to slow down.

And I never slowed down.

I climbed the stairs two at a time. The bedroom was simple. Low wooden beams, clean linens folded with crisp corners, a large window that framed the sea like a painting. It was quiet in that soft, heavy way old houses are-like it held its breath for you.