LOVING A GHOST.

CHAPTER 4.

The morning began gray, though at first I thought it was just the thin curtains not letting the sun through. When I pulled them open, the sky was the same color as the sea—flat and pale, as if the horizon had forgotten to separate them.

I lingered longer over tea that day, sitting by the window with a book half-open in my lap. I wasn’t reading so much as staring at the page while the breeze slipped in through the c***k in the window frame. The salt smell was heavier today, sharp enough that I could almost taste it.

By midmorning, I decided to go into town for a few things. The loaf of bread I’d bought was already going stale, and I wanted something to cook for dinner beyond toast and jam.

The walk into town took me past the same crooked houses, their shutters pulled tight against the breeze, and the same little shop with the chalkboard sign. This time it read: Soup Today. Carrot, Leek, Potato. I made a mental note to come back.

Inside Mira’s Market (the shop I visited the other day), the shelves were just as uneven as before, the air faintly cool. Mira herself was behind the counter, a woman with short gray hair and sharp eyes that looked like they missed nothing.

“Back again,” she said, not unkindly, but not exactly welcoming either.

“Bread didn’t last,” I admitted, holding up my basket.

Her mouth twitched, something between amusement and approval. “That happens.”

I added apples, cheese, and a bunch of herbs that smelled like they’d been picked that morning. Mira rang me up without small talk, her hands quick, practiced. I wondered how many summers she’d watched strangers drift in and out like the tide.

When I stepped back outside, the air had shifted. The breeze was cooler, heavier, carrying the faint metallic tang that always comes before rain. The clouds hung lower, darkening the edges of the town.

I walked back slowly, groceries tucked under my arm, pausing now and then to glance at the sky. The gulls had gone quiet.

By the time I reached the cottage, the first drops were already dotting the sand.

I hurried inside, set the groceries on the counter, and watched through the window as the drizzle turned into sheets. The beach blurred under it, the horizon erased completely. The sound was steady, like a thousand hands drumming lightly on the roof.

It was the kind of storm that made the world feel smaller.

---

I lit the small lamp near the sofa and pulled out a book from the shelf—poems by someone I didn’t recognize. The pages were yellowed, the print faint. I read a few lines, but the words didn’t hold me. My attention kept slipping to the window, where the rain streaked down in steady rivers.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been sitting there when the knock came.

Soft, hesitant even.

I froze, half-thinking I’d imagined it over the sound of the rain. But then it came again.

When I opened the door, he was standing there.

Alan.

Rain clung to his hair, plastering it against his forehead. His jacket was soaked through, droplets running down his face, his shoulders, dripping from his hands. And yet he didn’t look rushed.

“Sorry,” he said, voice calm over the downpour. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

I stepped back instinctively, opening the door wider. “You’re drenched. Come in.”

He hesitated only a moment before stepping inside. The air shifted with him—cool, damp, edged with the smell of rain.

“Here,” I said quickly, grabbing a towel from the hook by the bathroom door. I handed it to him, and he took it with a quiet “Thanks,” draping it around his shoulders.

Water dripped onto the rug beneath him. I tried not to care.

“You’ll freeze if you stay like that,” I said. “Sit down, I’ll make something warm.”

---

The kettle hissed again, louder against the silence. I busied myself with mugs, cocoa powder, the carton of milk I’d bought that morning.

Alan sat at the edge of the sofa, towel still around him, watching the rain through the window.

When I set the steaming mug in front of him, he wrapped his hands around it immediately, as though the heat alone was enough.

“Thanks,” he said again, softer this time.

I settled into the chair across from him, my own mug warming my palms. The silence stretched, filled only by the hiss of rain on the roof.

“You always wander around in storms?” I asked finally.

“Sometimes,” he said. Then, with the faintest smile: “Not usually into other people’s houses, though.”

“That’s reassuring.” I raised my mug in mock toast. “To exceptions, then.”

His smile deepened by a fraction, enough to make me realize it was rare.

---

The cocoa was hot, too sweet, but comforting. I drank it slowly, watching the way the firelight (from the small electric heater, old but functional) played across his face. His eyes were thoughtful, unreadable, but not closed off.

I tried not to stare.

“You’re very quiet,” I said.

“So are you,” he replied easily.

“Touché.” I sipped again. “Guess I was hoping you’d fill the silence.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Maybe it doesn’t need filling.”

That silenced me for a beat. That's true.

I looked down at my mug, then back at him. “You’re hard to place."

“How so?”

“You’re here, but not. Like the town belongs to you, but you don’t really belong to it.”

His gaze flicked toward me, calm but sharp. “Maybe I’m just good at blending in.”

I laughed softly. “You don’t blend in.”

That drew a small hum from him, almost like agreement, though he didn’t say more.

---

The rain kept falling, steady, steady. Outside, the world blurred into silver and gray. Inside, the cottage was warm, filled with the smell of cocoa and damp wool.

At one point, I pulled the book of poems from the table and handed it to him. "Here"

He raised a brow. “You want me to read it out?”

“Exactly.”

Alan opened it, flipping a few pages before settling on one. His voice was low, steady, almost careful as he read. But halfway through the verse, he exaggerated a phrase—elongated it, made it dramatic—and I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my cocoa.

“Don’t ruin it,” I protested between laughs.

“Ruin it?” he said, feigning offense. “I’m elevating it.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“True,” he said, lips twitching.

We kept going until the poems blurred into nonsense, laughter filling the small cottage louder than the rain outside.

---

When the storm finally began to ease, the sound softened, thinning into scattered drops. Alan set his empty mug on the table, standing with quiet finality.

“I should go,” he said.

“Back out into that?” I asked, gesturing at the wet world beyond the window.

He shrugged lightly. “Doesn’t bother me.”

I hesitated, not sure why I felt reluctant to let him walk out. But I only said, “Thanks for the company.”

“Thank you,” he said, a faint emphasis on the words, as if he meant them more than I’d given.

He left as quietly as he’d come, the door clicking shut, the sound of his footsteps already swallowed by damp sand and soft rain.

I stood by the window a while longer, watching the beach return to stillness. The horizon reappeared, faint and distant, as if it had never gone.

Inside, the cottage smelled faintly of cocoa, the towel he’d used damp on the back of the chair.

I curled up on the sofa with the book of poems and read until my eyes blurred, the memory of his voice still caught in the words.