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He'd set the dining table for two with precise efficiency.

Two plates, two forks, and two glasses of water positioned at precisely the proper distance from the edge: no placemats or centerpieces.

Nothing suggested an effort at hospitality—only the bare minimum required for two humans to consume food in the same space.

Wes emerged from the kitchen carrying the cast-iron skillet containing what looked like perfectly pan-fried cod, golden and crackling at the edges. A bowl of boiled potatoes followed, along with a jar of pickles.

"Can I help with anything?"

He set the skillet down. "It's done."

We sat across from each other in silence, broken only by the wind moaning against the windowpanes and the soft clink of silverware against ceramic.

The cod was excellent—flaky, seasoned with herbs I couldn't quite identify, and cooked by someone who clearly knew his way around a kitchen. The potatoes were potatoes, while the pickles added a sharp note that cut through the richness of the fish.

I tried to focus on the food instead of the oppressive lack of sound. Through the window, I saw the last of the afternoon light painting the scrub pine in shades of gold and green, beautiful in the way remote places were lovely when you weren't trying to converse with their inhabitants.

I had to say something. "This is really good. The fish, I mean. Do you catch it yourself?"

Wes chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, then reached for his water glass. "Sometimes."

I tried again. "How long have you lived here?"

He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "Since I needed to."

That answer told me something. He didn't say since he wanted to, or since the job became available, or since any of the normal reasons people ended up in places. It was the answer of someone who saw the island as a refuge or witness protection program.

"I mean, it's a beautiful place— quiet."

Wes set down his fork and looked at me. "Most people don't like quiet. They like pretending at it."

He spoke sparingly, but his words carried weight. He'd probably watched plenty of visitors arrive with romantic notions about island solitude, only to discover that actual isolation wasn't nearly as appealing as the Instagram version.

I was curious about how he saw me. "What makes you think I'm pretending?"

He shrugged and returned to his dinner. "You're here for a month. That's not quiet. That's a vacation from noise."

Ouch. He wasn't entirely wrong.

I came for research, gathering raw material for a thesis that would hopefully lead to graduate school and a career built on studying places like this from a comfortable academic distance.

When the month was over, I'd return to Whistleport—a town with coffee shops, reliable internet, and the kind of social noise that made idle chat feel natural.

"So, how long does it take to experience real quiet?" I asked. "Years? Decades?"

"However long it takes." He refilled his plate. "You're here to study resilience, right? I hope you brought your own."

Something in the way he said it made my stomach twist.

I wasn't sure I had any.

I'd sold myself as independent and insightful to my thesis committee. Now, I was flinching from a stranger's glare. What if I wasn't built for this?

"What kind of resilience did I need to bring?"

He didn't respond. I'd apparently exhausted the conversation quota for the evening.

He finished his dinner in silence and disappeared into the kitchen. "Coffee's in the cabinet."

I sat alone at the table, picking at the remains of my fish and listening to Wes wash his dishes. The wind outside had picked up, rattling windows and finding every gap in the cottage's defenses.

Day one summary: Caretaker speaks in riddles, cooks excellent fish, and appears committed to maintaining emotional distance.

I finished my dinner and brought my plate to the kitchen, where Wes was drying the cast-iron skillet with the care of someone who understood that tools lasted longer when treated with respect. He glanced at my plate, nodded toward the sink, and continued his routine without comment.

I did my best to be a hospitable guest. "Thanks for dinner. It was delicious."

He hung the dish towel on its designated hook and turned to face me. "Breakfast is at seven. Don't expect conversation."

Then, he was gone, footsteps disappearing down the hallway toward what I assumed was his bedroom, leaving me alone in a kitchen that smelled like fish and salt air. I made coffee with water that tasted faintly of minerals and salt. It was strong enough to dissolve tiny rocks.

After retreating to my room, I opened my laptop, and the screen flickered to life.

I clicked through the folders of background research I'd compiled—demographic data, economic reports, and newspaper archives dating back fifteen years.

I was scrolling through an article about Maine's declining fishing industry when a photograph stopped me cold.

It was a sports page from the Portland Press Herald , dated sixteen years ago.

I read the headline: LOCAL HOCKEY PHENOM WESLEY HUNTER MYSTERIOUSLY WITHDRAWS FROM UMAINE.

The grainy photo showed a younger version of the man who'd just cooked me dinner—same storm-gray eyes and same powerful build, but with the kind of bright confidence that belonged to someone who'd never learned that dreams could be taken away.

I stared at the screen, my heart speeding up its pace. Wesley Hunter. Not just the island caretaker. Not just some guy who'd chosen solitude.

He was a rising hockey star who'd vanished from the sport without explanation.

Lying in the narrow bed and listening to the cottage settle around me, I stared at the ceiling and tried to process the day.

The ferry ride that morning might have happened in a different lifetime.

Silas's cheerful send-off and my sunshine confidence had carried me across twenty miles of open ocean before dissolving when I came ashore.

I'd come chasing stories of survival. It hadn't occurred to me that I might need one of my own.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, knowing that tomorrow would bring the real work of understanding this place. And understanding the man who'd settled here when he needed to.