I shift in my chair, the words sticking in my throat. "I'm trying to write, but my brain's just... stuck."

Lydia's expression softens. “You’re writing again! Oh Nora, your dad would've been thrilled.”

The mention of Dad sends a familiar ache through my chest. Writing was our thing—he'd encouraged me to pursue it even more when Ms. Ryan pushed for that UK writing scholarship. After he died, the words dried up, along with so many other things.

"Everything's been tough since Dad died. Writing, staying here, just... everything,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Lydia moves to sit opposite me, her presence steady and warm. Her hand reaches across the table to squeeze mine. "I can't imagine what you're going through, sweetheart. I'm here for you, always. Anything you need, or if you just need to talk, it stays between us. Promise."

The weight on my shoulders lightens a fraction, but the words remain trapped. How do I tell her about last summer? About the nightmares that have returned full force? Some days it feels like I'm playing a part—the Nora everyone remembers versus who I've become. The nightmares, the cold sweats, the constant fear of him appearing around any corner, ready to take more of what was never his to claim.

"Whatever it is, Nora, you can tell me. Your mom won't hear it from me."

I deflect, gesturing toward her wine glass. "What about you? Why the early start?"

Her smile shifts, accepting my evasion. "The fundraiser gala's coming up. Planning, organizing, making sure everything's perfect. Hence, a little morning wine to smooth the edges." She takes a sip. "Actually, I could use a hand if you're up for it."

The prospect of diving into something—anything—that isn't my own thoughts or Nate feels like a lifeline. "Sure, I'd love to help."

Her face brightens. "Fantastic! We're going to make this event unforgettable." She pauses, studying me. "And who knows? Maybe it'll spark some inspiration for your writing."

I laugh, the sound hollow. "Maybe."

"You know," she continues, voice earnest, "sometimes inspiration isn't something you wait for. Sometimes, you have to go out and find it. It's there—in every little thing, every event, every interaction. Maybe you just need to squint a bit harder to see it."

Her words settle in my chest, and for the first time today, something like hope stirs. "Thanks, Lydia."

She squeezes my shoulder before heading to the kitchen. I watch her go, then push my laptop away. "I think I'm going to head out for a bit," I announce, stuffing papers into my backpack.

"Sure, honey, be safe," she calls after me.

The sea breeze cools my skin as I pedal through familiar streets, each rotation of the wheels steadying my thoughts. Almost without conscious decision, I find myself at Gracie's bookstore. The moment I step inside, the scent of old books wraps around me like a hug, bittersweet with memories of Dad.