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"Certainly. You'd be documenting stories across fifteen communities, from Eastport to Casco Bay. The position would be based wherever you choose to live—we've found our best work comes from researchers who establish genuine connections with their subjects rather than parachuting in for interviews."

My heart pounded. "Wherever I choose to live?"

"Absolutely. In fact, given your work on Ironhook, we'd be delighted if you wanted to maintain your base there. Having a researcher embedded in that particular community could provide an invaluable long-term perspective."

The conversation continued for another ten minutes—details about funding, publication opportunities, and the kind of academic freedom I'd never imagined possible. When I finally hung up, my hands were shaking.

Wes had been closely monitoring my face throughout the call. When I set the phone down, he leaned forward slightly.

"Good news?"

"I think so. Maybe. I don't know." I laughed nervously. "They want to offer me a job. A real job, documenting coastal communities across Maine. For two years, maybe longer."

"That's incredible."

"The thing is..." I stared at my hands wrapped around the coffee mug. "They said I could live anywhere. Base the research wherever I wanted."

"Anywhere?"

"I want to live on Ironhook." The words tumbled out before I could second-guess them. "Not only for you—though God knows I want that, too. But for the work and the stories that deserve to be told."

Wes's voice was measured in tone. "You're sure? It's a big decision. Career-defining, maybe."

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life. I headed to Ironhook thinking I was studying resilience. Turns out I was learning how to live it."

He spoke quietly. "Good, because I'm not great at long-distance brooding."

"What's this about brooding?" Mrs. Knickerbocker appeared beside us, dish towel in hand. She'd been listening from the sink, probably catching enough of my phone conversation to piece together the essentials.

"Eric just got offered his dream job."

Mrs. Knickerbocker beamed. "Oh, how wonderful. And where will it take you?"

"Ironhook," I said, and Wes's smile deepened.

She beamed at us both, then called toward the back porch. "Knick! Come hear this good news!"

Mr. Knickerbocker appeared in the doorway, pipe in hand and newspaper tucked under his arm. "What's all the commotion?"

"Eric's got himself a real job doing exactly what he loves, and he's staying right here where he belongs."

Mr. Knickerbocker's weathered face creased into a smile. "That calls for a proper celebration. Though I suppose it's too early for champagne."

"Never too early for good news," his wife declared, then turned to study Wes with a penetrating gaze that had probably seen through decades of teenage subterfuge. "And what about you? Any plans to make yourself useful while Eric's out documenting the world?"

Wes shifted uncomfortably on his stool. "Actually, Brooks Bennett and Rory Blake asked me to help with the youth hockey program. I'm thinking about it."

"Thinking about it?" Mr. Knickerbocker's bushy eyebrows rose.

"Trying to decide whether I remember enough to be useful."

Mr. Knickerbocker snorted. "Son, you don't forget how to ride a bicycle, and you sure as hell don't forget how to teach kids to love hockey. The question is whether you're brave enough to handle that kind of energy."

Wes looked down at his coffee, then up at me. "Want to take a walk? Maybe swing by the arena?"

I squeezed his hand. "Lead the way."

We gathered our jackets from the Knickerbockers' coat closet, accepting Mrs. Knickerbocker's insistence we take travel mugs of coffee and her stern warning to "dress warmly—October's got teeth."

The walk to the arena took us through downtown Whistleport. Wes tensed as we approached. By the time we reached the entrance, his jaw clenched.

"You sure about this?" I asked as he paused at the glass doors.

"No," he said, then pulled the door open anyway. "But I'm doing it."

The surface of the rink in the Whistleport Ice Arena gleamed under the overhead lights, fresh from the Zamboni's morning ritual. A handful of kids practiced near the far boards, their voices echoing off the high ceiling.

Wes stood near the locker room entrance, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, watching Brooks Bennett and Rory Blake sort through equipment bags. I positioned myself three rows up in the stands, watching from a distance.

Brooks noticed him first, glancing up from a tangle of practice jerseys to offer a slight nod of acknowledgment. There was nothing dramatic.

Rory straightened, a hockey stick in each hand, and he tossed one toward Wes without ceremony. It arced through the air in a lazy spiral, tape-wrapped handle rotating.

"Still remember how to tape one of these?" Rory's words were clear even from a distance.

Wes turned the stick over in his hands, thumb running reverently along the blade's curve. "Muscle memory's funny that way. Some things stick around even when you try to forget them."

Brooks stepped closer, clipboard tucked under one arm. "And do you want to remember?"

"I don't know if I'm the right guy to coach. I've been out of the game longer than most of these kids have been alive. What if I've forgotten too much?"

Brooks shrugged. "You showed up. That's half the job."

From the far end of the rink, a voice rose above the general chatter. "Hey! That guy was on TV!"

Heads turned throughout the arena, focusing on Wes. The local news had covered the cliff rescue with the kind of breathless enthusiasm small-town media brought to any story involving Coast Guard activities.

Wes looked startled, like a deer caught in headlights. Color rose in his cheeks, and I watched him fight an impulse to retreat toward the exit.

Rory grinned, clearly enjoying Wes's discomfort. "Guess you're famous now. Local hero returns to the ice. The story practically writes itself."

Wes visibly sighed, then looked down at the stick in his hands. When he raised his head, he was smiling.

"All right, let's see if I remember how to do this without completely embarrassing myself."

Wes approached the gate leading to the ice with Brooks and Rory flanking him. He paused at the threshold, stick balanced in one hand while the other gripped the boards. For a heartbeat, I thought he might change his mind.

Instead, he stepped onto the ice.

The transformation was immediate and profound. His posture straightened, shoulders settling into a configuration I'd never seen before. He pushed off from the boards with a gentle stroke, nothing fancy. It was the simple act of a man remembering what it felt like to glide.

From my perch in the bleachers, I watched Wes Hunter reclaim a piece of himself that had been dormant for too long.

He completed one slow lap, then another, gathering confidence with each stride.

After the third lap, he introduced himself to the kids, and they beamed with pride at being noticed by the man who'd been on television.

He caught my eye across the ice and smiled. I smiled back and opened my notebook. I wrote:

Sometimes coming home isn't about returning to a place you left. Sometimes, it's about finding the courage to become who you were meant to be all along.

Then I crossed it out and tried again:

Today, I watched a man teach children to fly on ice and remembered that some kinds of magic never disappear—they just wait for the right moment to surface again.