Dominic’s POV
The drive there feels like penance. The road twists between green hills and jagged sea. Every mile carries the weight of years of graves and lies and all the moments that brought me here.
When I finally park near a row of weather-beaten cottages, my hands are trembling. I tell myself it’s the jet lag. But I know it’s not.
Her house sits near the edge of a cliff, framed by wind-warped trees. There’s a small studio attached, windows open to the sea. Through the glass, I catch a glimpse of her standing at an easel, hair tied back, brush moving in slow, steady strokes.
For a second, I can’t breathe.
She’s older time has softened her edges. Her hair is lighter, her frame thinner, but the way she holds herself that quiet focus is exactly the same.
I take a step closer, gravel
