They were falling into rhythm.
It wasn't loud or dramatic—just small, everyday things that felt like the early chapters of something enduring. Micah would bring her coffee; Alia would leave folded poems in his jacket pocket. They read together. Sometimes in the same room, sometimes with silence between them that felt safe instead of empty.
And slowly, they began to forget the versions of themselves that had arrived in Eastcliff months ago—broken, guarded, aching.
Until the drawer.
---
It happened on a Tuesday.
Rain had tapped gently all morning, and Alia was cleaning out the bookshop's back room, humming some half-finished melody. Micah had gone to town to get supplies. She wore his sweater, sleeves rolled up, sleeves that still smelled like his cologne and sea air.
She was sorting old paperwork when she found it:
A small wooden drawer, hidden beneath loose floorboards.
Locked.
The kind of drawer that doesn't hide receipts or old pens.
The kind of drawer that hides past lives.
She hesitated.
Micah hadn't mentioned anything like this. But curiosity and instinct had always been stronger than caution for her.
She pried it open with the edge of a metal ruler.
Inside were:
A worn photograph.
A letter.
And a ring.
Not a wedding band—no. A delicate, thin band with a small sapphire in the center.
Alia stared at it, heartbeat slowing.
The photograph showed Micah and Claire—no question about it. She was pretty in a wild, sun-touched kind of way. He looked young. Happy. Open in a way he hadn't been with her… not yet.
The letter was addressed:
> "To whoever finds this—
I couldn't throw these pieces away, but I couldn't keep carrying them either."
> "If I'm gone, it's because I wasn't strong enough to be in love again."
> "If I stayed… it means I chose to try. To believe that grief doesn't mean the story ends."
There was no signature.
But it was his writing.
Alia's hands trembled.
It wasn't the presence of the objects that startled her—it was what they meant.
Micah had planned to leave, maybe even before they met. He had been ready to give up on the idea of love altogether.
Until her.
And now, even as her heart ached with empathy, a question echoed louder than anything else:
Why hadn't he told her?
---
That Evening
When Micah returned, he found her on the attic stairs, the letter in her lap. She didn't cry. She didn't speak first.
He stopped in the doorway like a man walking into the room where he left his soul years ago.
"You found it," he said quietly.
She nodded. "I wasn't looking for it."
Micah stepped forward, sat beside her, elbows on his knees.
"I wrote that the night before I met you," he said. "I had one foot out the door. Thought I'd sell the shop, burn the journals, and disappear into some life where no one asked about my past."
"And then?" Alia asked, eyes on him.
He looked at her, and there was no storm in his gaze this time—just still water.
"Then a girl moved into the attic," he whispered. "And left her bedroom window open. And cried into a typewriter that hadn't been touched in years."
Alia exhaled.
Micah continued.
"I wasn't trying to lie. I just… didn't want that version of me to follow us into this."
She folded the letter gently and placed it back in his hand.
"I'm not afraid of who you were," she said. "But I need you to trust me enough to show me everything. Not just the parts you're proud of."
Micah's jaw tightened. Then loosened.
And in the quiet, he nodded.
"I do trust you," he said. "More than I trust myself."
---
That night, she didn't leave a letter on the typewriter.
She left her door open.
And when he knocked, she said, "Come in."
Not as an invitation.
But as a promise.