LOVING A GHOST.

CHAPTER 6.

The morning carried the damp heaviness of yesterday’s storm. The air was cool, washed clean, the sand dark with leftover rain. I wrapped myself in a cardigan and stood by the porch with a mug of tea, staring out toward the beach.

I waited.

The gulls came and went, wheeling sharp arcs above the water. The tide crept in and pulled back. A few locals passed along the sand, their dogs running ahead, but no Alan.

I lingered longer than I meant to. Half an hour turned into an hour. By the time the tea cooled in my hands, a restlessness settled in my chest. He always appeared eventually — steady as the tide, even if unpredictable. But today, nothing.

I set the mug down too quickly, the clink louder than intended. Maybe he was just… busy. Or maybe I weirded him out yesterday and he was trying to stay away from me.

The thought lodged itself deep enough that by late morning I found myself walking into town.

---

The market street was damp, its cobblestones darkened from the storm. Mira’s Market sat open as always, baskets of fruit and bread arranged neatly out front. Inside, the familiar shopkeeper looked up from arranging jars of preserves.

“Back again?” she said warmly.

I hesitated. “Actually, I wanted to ask about someone. Do you know Alan? He—” I faltered, realizing I didn’t actually have a proper description to offer. “He lives nearby, I think.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, then smoothed. “Alan? Tall, quiet type?”

I nodded quickly. Relief loosened something in me.

“Up the road past the square,” she said, pointing. “Small place with a blue door. Can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” I said, and tried not to look like I was hurrying as I stepped back outside.

---

The cottage was easy to spot once I reached it — smaller than mine, tucked back from the lane. The blue door was chipped, the paint fading, and the windows were curtained tight.

I stood there longer than I should have, hands shoved in my pockets, debating. Finally, I knocked.

There was a shuffle inside, then silence. A pause stretched, and then the door opened a fraction.

Alan stood there.

Except he didn’t look like himself. His hair was mussed, his face pale, and his eyes, normally sharp, were dulled. He leaned against the doorframe like standing upright was already asking too much.

“Elaina,” he said, voice rough.

“You’re sick,” I blurted, before realizing how blunt it sounded.

One corner of his mouth tugged, as if even now he couldn’t help the faintest amusement. “You’re observant.”

I frowned. “This is from yesterday, isn’t it? Standing out in the rain like some… martyr.”

“I’m fine,” he said, though his voice cracked halfway through.

I pushed past him gently but firmly. “Sure you are.”

The cottage was dim, the air cool. It smelled faintly of sea salt and something herbal, like dried sage. Modest, like him — simple furniture, stacks of books, the faint clutter of someone who lived alone.

Alan sighed but didn’t argue as I guided him toward the small sofa. He sat heavily, pressing a hand to his temple.

“Stay there,” I said, with a tone that surprised even me. “I’ll make tea.”

---

The kitchen was tiny, but functional. The kettle sat on the stove, a few mismatched mugs on the shelf above. I found loose tea in a tin, the scent sharp and calming when I opened it. The water took its time heating, filling the cottage with a soft hiss.

When I carried the mug back, Alan was already half-slumped against the sofa arm. His eyes fluttered open briefly when I handed it to him.

“You don’t have to—”

“Drink,” I interrupted. “Then sleep.”

Something about bossing him around like this was both awkward and strangely satisfying. He didn’t argue. He sipped, grimaced faintly, then leaned back again.

I pulled a blanket from the armchair and draped it over him. His eyes closed without protest.

---

With Alan asleep, the cottage was hushed.

I sat for a while, but the stillness pressed at me. My gaze wandered, inevitably. The books stacked on the table drew me first — old hardcovers with cracked spines, titles ranging from poetry to sea navigation. A small journal sat tucked beneath them, leather-bound, though I didn’t touch it.

On the shelf, a row of seashells lined neatly in a row. All different sizes, some chipped, some smooth, a few were paired with small stones.

I wandered further, careful not to disturb anything. On the desk in the corner, a set of papers lay scattered — sketches of the coastline, rough notes in tidy handwriting. I picked one up briefly, the ink faded, before setting it back exactly as I found it.

Everything about the cottage felt like him.

When I returned to the sofa, he was still asleep, breathing evenly. For a moment, I just stood there, watching. It struck me how strange this was — how little I truly knew him, yet here I was, tucking blankets, making tea, worrying as if it were second nature.

I sat back in the chair, pulling my knees up, and let the sound of his breathing fill the space.

---

The afternoon passed slowly. Outside, the light shifted, clouds thinning to let in patches of sun. Eventually, Alan stirred. His eyes blinked open, heavy-lidded, but a flicker of recognition sparked when they landed on me.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Of course I’m still here,” I replied, trying to sound casual. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t collapse dramatically while no one was looking.”

He let out a soft huff of laughter, weak but real. “You worry too much.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But clearly someone has to.”

For a moment, our eyes held — his tired, mine stubborn — before he leaned back again.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

The words were simple, but they settled heavier than they should have.

I didn’t answer, just tugged the blanket higher around him.

---

By the time I left, the sky was streaked with gold. The cottage door closed softly behind me, and the lane stretched quiet and empty.

I walked back slowly, the sea breeze cool against my face, questions pressing heavier with each step.

Alan was elusive, guarded, carrying pieces of a life I couldn’t quite glimpse. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted answers — or if I just wanted more moments, like these, no matter how fleeting.