Page 23 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

EVIE

I don’t sleep.

Not after the way his voice sounded in the dark—gravel-soft and raw, saying things I didn’t know I needed to hear.

“I’ll fight for you—but not against you.”

Those words echo, again and again, like the tide against stone. Relentless, patient, and honest in a way that unnerves me more than any shouted confession ever could.

I leave the blanket on the loveseat and walk. No direction. Just the slow crunch of dirt under boots, the sharp bite of salt air in my lungs, and that low hanging morning fog that makes the whole town look like it’s half memory, half myth.

Lumera wakes slow. Lights flicker on behind windows.

Boats clatter in the harbor. Someone’s dog starts barking three blocks over and doesn’t stop.

I cut down a side path near the old salt sheds, where the smell of brine and rust lives in the bones of the buildings, and end up leaning against a wooden railing that looks out over the east docks.

The tide’s out. The boats sit lower than they should, anchored but somehow still restless.

Just like me.

I don’t know how long I stand there before I hear the soft thump of small boots on gravel.

“Hi, Miss Evie.”

I turn.

Jamie’s bundled in a puffed-up navy jacket, his face half-lost in a scarf three sizes too big. He’s holding a stick, poking a puddle like it might fight back. Rowan trails behind him, coffee in hand, looking far too amused for this early in the day.

“You’re up early,” I say.

Jamie grins. “I’m ghost hunting.”

Rowan raises an eyebrow at me. “Told him the tide brings in good ones after a fog.”

“Cruel,” I mutter.

“Effective,” she says.

Jamie wanders over to the edge, peering down into a tide pool.

“Do you think ghosts are lonely?” he asks, not looking up.

The question slams into me. Not because it’s innocent. But because it’s not.

“I think maybe they used to be people,” I say slowly. “People who got too tired of being misunderstood.”

Jamie nods like that makes all the sense in the world. “Maybe they just need someone to see ‘em.”

I blink fast. “Maybe.”

He shrugs and pokes at a sea snail. “I think if I found one, I’d ask if it wanted to play.”

Behind him, Rowan’s smile fades into something quieter. Something knowing.

They don’t stay long. Rowan makes some excuse about cinnamon buns and cold toes, and Jamie waves with both arms, stick still in hand like a flag. They vanish around the corner, and I’m left with his question echoing in my chest.

Are ghosts lonely?

Or are they just tired of pretending they’re not?

I push off the railing and keep walking, past the newer docks and the fish market, up the road that leads toward the bluff where the older houses live—the ones that still have wind chimes and real shutters and creaking porches no one ever replaces.

My mother’s house used to sit up here.

Used to.

It’s gone now. Sold years ago after the hospital visits and the paperwork and the slow unraveling of everything we never said to each other.

But I remember the fence.

Painted seafoam green. Chipped.

I remember her voice drifting from the garden—singing to basil plants like they were lovers who needed coaxing. I remember how she used to dance in the kitchen, barefoot and wild-eyed, her laughter thick like honey, sticky and sweet and clinging to everything it touched.

And I remember the silence that followed when the world finally took too much from her and didn’t give back.

Love was joy to her.

And terror.

She never found the balance. She loved in bursts—like storms—and then shrank from it, terrified she’d ruin what she needed most.

God, I see her in me.

That same skittish ache. That pull and retreat.

I drop down onto a bench half-covered in leaves and stare out toward the edge of town, where the ocean meets the clouds and everything feels far away enough not to hurt.

I thought I was running from him.

But I wasn’t.

I’ve been running from the part of myself that wants too much and never knows how to ask for it without flinching. From the fear that wanting someone—really wanting them—makes you weaker. Exposed.

My mother used to say love wasn’t safe. It was sharp-edged and bloody and worth every scar if you were brave enough.

I’m tired of being a coward.

A seagull lands on the post near my feet, eyeing me like it knows I’ve just admitted something important and wants payment.

I toss it a broken piece of cracker from my pocket.

“Don’t get cocky,” I mutter.

It squawks in judgment anyway.

I stay on the bench for a long while, letting the wind thread through my coat and the sea murmur beneath the cliffs.

Eventually, I walk. But this time, not aimless.

I go to the old house.

It sits at the end of a short drive, its paint sun-faded, roof moss-lined, and the porch railing half fallen in. The For Sale sign is still staked out front, crooked from weather and disinterest. I stand there for a long time, just looking at it.

All its broken parts and tired grace.

And something shifts in me.

The wind kicks up, and the chimes—still hanging, rusted and tangled—sing out like a memory.

I walk up the steps. The wood groans but holds. I sit on the top stair, knees up, hands in my pockets.

I could sell it. Forget it. File it under “things I survived.”

But I don’t want to run anymore.

Not from this town.

I want to stay. I want to rebuild what was mine. Or what could be mine again.

Even if it means facing every ghost that lives in the walls.

I pull out my phone and dial the realtor.

When she answers, I say four words.

“Take down the sign.”