Chapter Text
Thea was beginning to wonder if she was in the right place. She’d reread the email at least six times in the last hour. It still said: Thursday. Stardew Wharf. 10 o’clock. A man named Willy will meet you.
There was a republic ferry in the summer, once or twice a week to Pelican Island and back. But it was well into the off-season now. The only boats heading out to the archipelago belonged to locals.
Thea stood in a fine, salty mist, her breath curling into the damp air. The sky was an unbroken stretch of cold grey, and the chill had crept through her rain slicker and wool sweater long ago. After an hour, she was certain: she was not dressed for a two-hour boat ride.
Seagulls shrieked overhead and loitered across the moss-slick pilings of the abandoned piers nearby. The tide licked slowly at the shoreline. Algae and barnacles clung to the old wood in a deep, stubborn green, less than in the summer, but still firmly rooted.
Only now did she notice the benches lining the dock, meant for these long waits. She wiped a sleeve over the dew-speckled surface before sitting, knowing full well her pants would still soak through.
Her suitcases were damp now, too. Everything around her seemed slightly wet, as though the air itself had chosen a state between fog and rain.
This, she realized, was her inauguration into life on an island.
No poetic morning light. No sun-warmed welcome.
Just cold mist, heavy silence, and the nagging presence of doubt.
Of course, in photos, the little cedar-shake cottage looked picturesque – nestled between dark conifers, hydrangeas blooming blue and white around it like lace. And the idea of living on a remote island with no winter ferry had been easy to romanticize.
In practice, it was inconvenient. It was grey. It was wet.
Still, ever hopeful, she whispered to herself, “It’s not like I’ll need to go into town often anyway.”
And as if summoned by that small show of optimism, the stillness broke.
A low hum rose from the sea, deep and grumbling. From the fog, the bow of a white fishing boat emerged: squat, old, and working-class. Thea stood quickly, gathering her things that were already gathered.
Through the cockpit window, she spotted the man steering: older, in a red flannel. His brown hair was shot through with grey, and his beard matched. A cigarette clung to the corner of his mouth as he guided the boat in. He moved with focus as he prepared to dock.
The diesel engine sputtered to a stop. The man stepped with a slight limp in his gait onto the slick deck and called, “Ahoy! You must be Thea.”
She nodded, approaching. “Yes. You must be Willy. It’s–”
He was already circling around the cockpit, calling back, “Tell me, how strong are ya, Thea?”
She hesitated, then caught sight, and scent, of the two neat stacks of fish crates beside him.
“Uh... Fairly?” she said, uncertain. “Fairly strong, I guess?”
“Good,” he grunted around his cigarette. “Then you won’t mind helpin’ me unload. Cart’s under the awning.”
Without protest, she wheeled the heavy cart over, wheels shrieking against the damp dock. Willy had already dropped a plank between deck and shore and was carrying a crate over, setting it down with a solid thud. He turned back, extending a wet hand.
“Good to meet ya,” he said, grinning. The cigarette was gone now, but the scent lingered.
Thea followed his lead, lifting her first crate, and nearly dropping it. Her shoulders collapsed inward from the weight. Willy let out a laugh that spiraled into a smoker’s cough. She laughed too, breathless and embarrassed.
He handed her another, saying, “Nice to see young folks moving to the island. Don’t happen much these days.”
Thea offered a polite smile, unsure how to respond, and tried not to grimace at the ache blooming in her arms. Physical labor. Right. This was her new life now.
When the boat was finally empty, Willy wandered off to the fishmonger’s truck, muttering something about needing to haggle. Thea watched him go, then loaded her luggage aboard with trembling hands, each suitcase heavier than she remembered.
Fog shifted like silk across the surface of the water. She stood still, trying to slow her breath.
When the cart returned, another figure walked beside Willy. He was younger, dark-haired, dressed in black, and moved with quiet ease. He also, evidently, knew what time the ferry was actually due to arrive.
Her stomach sank as she realized her mistake.
Time zone. The island was one hour behind.
She flushed.
The man stepped onto the boat first and began preparing for departure with practiced movements. Willy waved Thea aboard and called over his shoulder, “Sebastian, ya heard about Thea?”
Sebastian nodded, brushing damp hair from his eyes. He moved without ceremony, grabbing the boarding plank as Willy returned to the helm.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, voice low, unreadable.
Thea offered the same, settling opposite him inside the open hull.
He pulled a cigarette from a battered pack. Held it out. “You smoke?”
She shook her head. “Thank you, though.”
He nodded, lit up, and leaned back, boots braced, body relaxed. The boat jerked, engine kicking to life.
As they motored away, Thea kept her eyes on the shrinking dock. The water hissed beneath them. Fog shifted behind, swallowing the mainland until it was gone.
“So,” Sebastian said after a long stretch of silence, “out of all the places you could live, you chose Pelican Island?”
Thea didn’t look at him. Her stomach was already churning. “You did too, didn’t you?”
He smirked, acknowledging the deflection. Then rephrased, “What brought you?”
She hesitated, sleeve-fisting again. “My grandfather lived here. I inherited his place.”
Sebastian looked over. “First time on the island?”
“Came a few times as a kid,” she said. “It’s been a while.”
He nodded. Thea didn’t speak again – bile was building. Her skin went clammy.
From the cockpit, Willy called out, “Sebastian, get her some chew.”
Thea barely managed a shake of her head. “I don’t– I don’t chew tobacco.”
But Sebastian was already at her side, dropping a pinch of dried herbs into her hand. “Peppermint. Chamomile. And… whatever else.”
“Black horehound,” Willy supplied helpfully.
Sebastian winced. “That.”
Thea stuffed the bitter mix into her mouth. It tasted like oversteeped tea and misery, but slowly the nausea eased. She leaned her head back and muttered a quiet, “Thank you.”
Willy called, “You’ll get your sea legs yet. Until then, two hours to go.”
A middle-aged woman with red hair waited on the dock they arrived at, waving as they approached. Sebastian moved easily through the docking routine; tossing fenders, hopping ashore to tie the lines, everything done with minimal speech.
The boat was still and quiet was restored now that they killed the engine, Thea made moves to disembark. Never before so grateful to see solid land.
Willy grunted as he hoisted one of her suitcases. “What’d ya pack in here? Bricks?”
Thea flushed. “Thanks for the ride,” she said quickly, grabbing the rest herself.
“Anytime.” He patted her shoulder, then vanished into the weather-worn shack perched on the end of the dock.
The woman beamed and pulled her into a hug that made Thea stumble slightly.
“So nice to meet you, Thea. I’m Robin. Mayor Lewis sent me down to help you get settled.”
Sebastian was already heading off, lifting a hand in casual farewell. “See you around, Thea.”
Robin smiled. “Glad you already met Sebastian. That’s my son. You’ll have to meet Maru too.”
Thea blinked. Of course. That made sense.
They walked up through the fog-slick air toward a truck, its back already open. As they loaded up, Thea caught glimpses of the coastline, beach grass, rocky tidepools, tall cliffs in the distance. She knew beyond this wall of fog there should be a town somewhere. Familiar, but hazy. Like memory blurred by time. It was a little unsettling knowing it was there, just imperceptible.
The truck rattled as it left the dock behind. Robin drove with the ease of someone who had made this journey a thousand times, her red hair pulled back in a thick braid that flicked against the collar of her coat as she turned the wheel.
They skirted the edge of the town center, though Thea wouldn’t have known if Robin hadn’t mentioned it. The fog grew denser inland, softening every shape into a silhouette. Moisture beaded on the windshield. The wipers ticked at a lazy rhythm, slicing the silence.
“The fog’s year-round out here,” Robin said, glancing over, her voice easy. “Tends to hug the forests, especially around last frost.”
Thea nodded, too tired to be conversational. She watched dark evergreens press in close as the road narrowed into a rutted lane, more dirt than gravel now.
“This is your drive.”
Robin turned left. The trees loomed taller here, the road barely passable. Branches scraped the truck as they passed, and Thea saw the wooden sign too late, half-concealed by winter-killed vines.
She mouthed the name under her breath.
Sea Fern Farm.
The driveway opened up to a clearing, and there it was, the cottage. She recognized it instantly, even through the veil of fog and years.
A small, cedar-shingled house, gently slouched with age. The front steps were crooked. One of the shutters leaned off its hinge. The hydrangeas, once tamed into tight blue clouds, had overgrown into a wild tangle, skeletal this time of year.
And yet, beneath the weather and time, she could still see it, the photo that hung in her childhood home, its frame dusty but beloved.
She could still hear her mother say, “That’s my father-in-law’s place, all the way out on Pelican Island.”
Vacation lore, fondly recounted. But never often visited.
Thea stepped out of the truck slowly. The air here smelled different, sea salt, loam and frostbitten pine. It hit somewhere deep in her memory, turning over forgotten stones.
Robin was already unloading her bags.
“It’s a little rough around the edges,” she said kindly. “But it’s got good bones.”
Thea didn’t answer right away. She was trying to place herself here, in this place where she had once laid on her belly in the fairy-soft grass, watching bees drift from bellflower to forget-me-not.
So much had changed. And yet.
༄.°
Her sisters had been skeptical. Technically, the house was left to all three of them, but their lives were so different now. Noa and Bee had established careers, families, and city routines they weren’t eager to trade for a weathered one-bedroom cottage five hours away by car—and then another two hours by ferry. They had no interest in the island, or in uprooting themselves from everything familiar. Instead, they told Thea they’d sign over their shares to her, surprised she even wanted it.
“What are you going to do all the way out there?” Noa asked during their final dinner together, folding her napkin with the kind of military precision she always had. Thea could see the pragmatism in her eyes—the same pragmatism that had propelled Noa through grad school and into a C-suite job years before anyone expected.
“Fix it up,” Thea said. “Try something new.”
Bee, glowing from the kitchen warmth and the motherly glow that settled over her these days, smiled softly. “I think it’s great. A fresh start.”
Noa rolled her eyes. “If nothing else, you could turn it into a vacation rental.” Typical.
Thea passed the bread around the table, cheeks burning with self-consciousness. She wanted to say more but the words felt fragile. “I’m going to learn how to garden.”
Bee’s smile grew wider, her eyes softening, “That sounds perfect.”
Noa sighed, finally relaxing a bit as she took a sip from her glass. “Well, at least make sure there’s Wi-Fi.”
༄.°
A small, formal man in a green raincoat came down off the steps of the cottage. Mayor Lewis. He offered a tight-lipped smile and a firm handshake, his presence both reassuring and quietly official. Thea made the mistake of mentioning her seasickness, which earned a shared laugh between him and Robin.
“You’ll get your sea legs soon enough,” the mayor said with a knowing nod.
He walked her through the quirks of the house with a practiced ease. The breaker box was tucked away in the pantry. The pilot light might need relighting. The key to the front door stuck stubbornly, requiring a little patience.
“Come into town when you’re ready,” he said, buttoning his coat against the chill. “We’re a small place. Everyone will want to meet you.”
And then they were gone, leaving Thea alone with the quiet house and the lingering scent of cedar and dust.
She closed the door behind her and leaned her back against it, letting out a long breath that echoed through the stillness. The living room looked worn but familiar. The old, sea-softened blue-and-white striped sofa still sat where it always had, centered on a jute rug that softened the creaking floorboards. Most of the books were gone now; the empty shelves stood silent and bare. Her father must have packed them when he’d come through to clean.
She sat down at that table, running her fingers over the warped wood, tracing the rings and scratches that told stories she didn’t quite know how to read anymore. She exhaled, a quiet sound, full of weight.
She was here.
Alone.
And from somewhere deeper than thought, beneath the swirl of doubt and uncertainty, she knew:
This was going to be hard.
But maybe, just maybe, it was also going to be good.