She had introduced herself as Catriona, her hand small and chilled inside his own. A hand he would go on to hold many times as the two of them walked Max each morning, before she returned home to the granddaughter he’d never had the chance to meet, until now.

Part of him wanted to walk away, to continue with his morning as planned—a stroll across the beach, followed by a strong, black coffee, croissant, and newspaper at the nearby café, then home to continue work on the raised beds in the back garden.

But another part of him knew it was folly to ignore a dying woman’s wishes. A woman who had chosen him because he understood that Emily’s world was about to be turned upside down.

Max nudged his master’s leg, pulling him back to the here and now. The garden was still: petals sleepy under the advancing sun; bees going in search of a late breakfast; a robin perched atop the handle of a garden fork, with a worm held tight in its beak.

The dog barked, and the bird took flight as the front door opened. A young woman dressed in a pale green T-shirt and denim shorts appeared in the doorway. Her skin held the beginnings of a tan, all except for a large stretch of scar along her jaw. Standing barefoot, the nails of each toe painted a glossy red, she watched Mr. Thomas from under a heavy fringe that stopped just shy of her hazel eyes.

There was something unsettling about her gaze, Mr. Thomas thought. The way it drew him in to look at her a moment more, to recognize the curve of lip so like her grandmother’s, and the freckles across her nose.

“Are you Emily?” he asked.

A single nod of reply as she bent down to rub behind the dog’s ears, a smile that broke through the scar when she was rewarded with a lick.

“I have something for you,” he said as he held out the envelope he’d kept safe for six long weeks. “It’s from your grandmother.”

She considered the offering a moment before taking it, then turned to walk back inside, a small wave of her hand inviting him to follow.

The dog pulled free of its lead, trotting behind the woman who disappeared into a room at the rear. Inside, the cottage was cool, its stone walls clinging to the remnants of night, with a small living room to the left and a narrow staircase straight ahead. A cuckoo clock ticked away in the corner, and he was forced to duck his head to avoid a beam as he passed through to the kitchen. The scent of toast and coffee drew his eye to a table by the back door, where an empty plate and cup sat next to a sketchbook open to a blank page.

Emily stood by the butler’s sink and he watched as she turned the envelope over in her hand, looking at it from one side then the other. She held it up to the light, then tossed it in the sink, where it landed atop a slowly disintegrating tower of bubbles, dark tendrils of ink beginning to soak through the paper.