LOVING A GHOST.

Chapter 3.

The third morning started slower than the last.

I woke to gulls calling outside the window, sharp and insistent, like someone trying to knock on the wrong door. The cottage was cool again, the air drifting in with the smell of salt and damp wood. I made tea—again—and stood at the sink while the kettle hissed, staring out at the horizon like I was supposed to make sense of it.

There was no sense to be made, though. Just the water stretching wide, unbothered by me being here at all.

I ate a slice of toast with jam, read a few pages of a book from the shelf, and gave up on concentrating after the same paragraph refused to sink in. The quiet wasn’t unsettling, but it was heavy. The kind of silence that made you want to fill it with something.

So I slipped on sandals and walked toward the beach again.

The tide was lower this morning, the sand stretched wide and damp, patterned with ripples. A few shells glittered in the shallows. The air was sharper than yesterday, the wind carrying a faint chill that made me pull my sweater tighter.

And there he was.

Alan.

This time he was perched on the same driftwood as before, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the water. It felt less like coincidence and more like inevitability now.

I slowed, then kept walking until I was close enough that ignoring him would have been the stranger choice.

“You always pick the same spot,” I said.

He looked up, calm as ever. “It’s a good spot.”

“Practical or sentimental?” I asked, raising a brow.

He tilted his head slightly, considering. “Practical. Good view. Easy to find again.”

I crossed my arms, pretending to think. “Sounds like an excuse. I’m betting sentimental.”

That earned me the smallest smile, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.

“Maybe both,” he admitted.

I sat down on the sand near him, far enough to keep it casual, close enough that it didn’t look like I was avoiding him.

“You’re making a habit of showing up when I do,” I said.

“Or maybe you’re showing up when I do,” he countered.

I laughed softly. “Touché.”

We fell into silence then, but it wasn’t the heavy kind. More like the comfortable quiet of people who didn’t feel rushed to fill every gap.

After a while, I asked, “So… did you grow up here?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on the horizon, steady and thoughtful.

“I moved around a lot,” he said finally. “A city for a while. A coastal town before that.”

I frowned lightly. “That’s vague.”

“On purpose.”

I huffed a laugh. “Fair enough. I guess I’ll have to collect the details like seashells.”

Alan’s lips twitched. “You might need a bigger basket.”

That small exchange lingered longer than it should’ve. Not because of what was said, but because of how easily it had been said.

---

After a while, he stood. “Heading back?”

“Eventually,” I said, brushing sand off my hands.

“I’ll walk with you.”

It wasn’t a question. Just a simple statement, as if it was already decided.

We walked side by side along the shoreline, the water curling close to our feet before pulling away.

At one point, I nearly tripped over a piece of seaweed tangled in the sand. He glanced at me, brow raised.

“Graceful,” he said dryly.

“Shut up,” I muttered, though I was laughing.

That earned me another rare grin, one that made me glance away before I stared too long.

By the time we reached the cottage, the sun was higher, the air warmer. Alan stopped at the steps like he had yesterday, looking up at the porch as if it held some unspoken significance.

“Made it back in one piece,” he said.

“Barely,” I replied.

He gave me a small nod. “See you around.”

And just like before, he turned and walked away, fading into the stretch of sand until he was only a figure in the distance.

I stood there a moment longer, feeling the faintest pull of disappointment at watching him go, before heading inside.

The bread from the market waited on the counter. The cottage was still. But the silence didn’t feel quite as heavy anymore.