Driving to Thomas’s Cottage
My hands shook on the wheel as I left the bustling hotel lobby, the salty wind biting at the back of my neck.
The road curled along cliffs, the ocean crashing below like a distant drum.
When the gravel path ended at a weather‑worn gate, a man in a faded sweater stepped forward.
“You must be Claire,” Thomas said, voice tight, eyes darting to the sky.
He led me through a narrow hallway lined with sea‑salted photographs, each frame a glimpse of a life I didn’t know.
In the living room, a sturdy oak chest sat on a rug, its lock rusted.
“That’s my box,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I never open it.”
He turned the key in the lock, the metal clicking, then closed it again without a glance.
The chill of the stone floor seeped into my shoes as I wondered what secrets lay hidden inside.
Outside, the tide roared, and I felt a knot tighten in my stomach.
