Three hours later, salty wind hit my face as I stepped off the bus in Brinkcliffe, a quiet seaside town. No one was waiting. No one knew I was coming.
And the strange thing was—I wasn’t afraid.
I checked my notebook of listings. The first cottage was disappointing—peeling paint, leaky roof, overpriced, and the owner only liked tenants without families. The next two places weren’t better.
By late afternoon, I tried the last address: apartment 3B.
When the door opened, a man about my age with a neat gray beard and kind brown eyes greeted me.
“Mrs. Windborn? Lionel Gardner. We spoke on the phone.”
The apartment was bright and clean—bay window, small functional kitchen, bedroom facing east, and a balcony with a real view of the ocean.
“I’ll take it,” I said immediately.
He laughed. “You didn’t even ask the price.”
“I can afford it,” I answered, surprising myself with how true it felt.
We signed the lease on the spot. He lived across the hall and told me to knock if I needed anything.
When he left, I wandered the rooms slowly. No history here. No ghosts. Just space.
I unpacked. Set Humphrey’s photo on the bedside table. Opened the balcony doors and watched the ocean until darkness came.