The salt in the air hadn't changed.
Eli Navarro stepped out of his rental car and stared at the sleepy coastal town that once felt too small to hold all the things he never said. Salt Bay hadn't grown much in the last ten years—same cracked sidewalks, same tilted street signs, same low-hum hum of waves crashing in the distance.
But he had changed. Or at least, he hoped he had.
He shut the car door with a soft click, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder. The key to his father's house felt like dead weight in his palm. Technically, it was his house now, though the idea of calling it "home" felt like a lie with splinters.
A cool gust swept through the street as he approached the house—two stories of faded blue siding, wind-warped shutters, and overgrown grass. It looked like no one had touched it since his father's stroke six months ago.
The lawyer had said the estate wouldn't be complicated. Just a house, a handful of bills, and a pile of things Eli didn't want to remember. No siblings, no extended family left to argue with. Just Eli, alone with a past that had waited patiently for his return.
He unlocked the door.
The air inside was musty, stale. Dust floated in lazy spirals through slits of sunlight. He let his bag drop with a thud on the floor and moved through the house slowly, as if waking a sleeping animal.
In the living room, his father's armchair sat like a throne turned to stone. On the mantle, a picture frame lay face-down. Eli picked it up carefully.
It was a photo of them—Eli at sixteen, awkward and grinning beside his father, both of them in fishing gear. Back when things were simple. Or when Eli pretended they were.
He placed the photo upright and turned away.
You can do this, he told himself. Just a few weeks. Clear the place out. Sell it. Leave.
He wasn't expecting company on his first day. But Salt Bay had other plans.
The knock on the front door came around 5 p.m.—three sharp raps. Eli hesitated, a box of old books in his hands. He opened the door with cautious curiosity.
And there stood Talia Rivera.
She hadn't changed much, and yet she had. Her hair was longer now, sun-streaked and tied in a loose braid over one shoulder. She wore a denim jacket over a sea-green dress and held a cup of coffee like it was armor.
"Thought you might need this," she said, holding it out. "Small towns talk fast. I heard you were back."
Eli took the coffee, unsure if he should smile or apologize.
"Thanks," he said. "Didn't think you'd still be around."
"I'm a lifer, apparently." She studied his face. "You look… tired."
"I've been on planes more than solid ground this year," he admitted. "Takes a toll."
Talia nodded, then tilted her head slightly. "Mind if I come in?"
He hesitated just a second too long, then stepped aside.
The familiarity hit him like a riptide—how naturally she fit into the space, how easily she wandered toward the kitchen, like no time had passed.
They stood in awkward silence, sipping their drinks.
"So," she said finally, "how long are you staying?"
"A few weeks. Long enough to deal with the house. Then back to Portland, maybe Berlin after that."
Talia's expression flickered. "Still running, huh?"
The words stung more than he wanted to admit. He laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Still blunt," he said.
"Someone has to be."
They locked eyes for a moment—ten years of history compressed into the space between them.
Talia broke the silence first. "I'm sorry about your dad."
Eli looked down at his cup. "We weren't close."
"Still."
He nodded.
She turned toward the door, as if suddenly remembering she had other places to be. "You should come by The Current sometime. I'm still working there. Writing, editing, yelling about deadlines."
"The local paper," Eli said, surprised. "You always wanted to leave."
"Yeah," she said, pausing at the doorway. "But not all of us did."
With a quiet smile, she left.
Eli stood there, unsettled.
He wasn't ready for Talia. For memories. For all the things he left unsaid.
And he definitely wasn't ready for what came next—because as the sun dipped lower behind the trees, a figure appeared across the street.
Mason.
Leaning against his rusted pickup, arms crossed, surfboard in the bed, hair longer, skin darker, expression unreadable.
Eli's breath caught.
A decade had passed, and yet, just like the salt in the air, some things refused to fade.