Later that afternoon, the coastal fog begins to timidly roll back in, slowly blending the sea and the rocky shoreline into one. Smudges of orange and yellow color the background as the sun prepares to set. On the northern edge of the coastline—where once stood the most active trading area of the village—Elara sits on a bench by the thick, cast-stone balustrade surrounding the old fish market. The abandoned seaside pavilion, with its series of arches and grand vaulted ceiling, still manages to frame the sea into a perfect postcard picture.

With a heavy sketchbook resting on her legs, Elara finishes her outlines of the pavilion and turns around to watch the sunset. She sets the sketchbook down, hugs her legs close, and, with her eyes shut releases a contented sigh. 

A distinct sound breaks the rhythm of the crashing waves—footsteps on gravel.

She turns her head. Walking through the arched walkway of the old fish market is the same tall man from the bookstore. He is wearing a long overcoat against the chill, a charcoal scarf wrapped loose around his neck. He isn’t looking at his feet; his head is tilted back, his eyes tracking the structural lines of the concrete pillars against the setting sky.

He stops just a few paces away from where Elara sits, staring at the reflection of the sunset on the abandoned structure. 

Oblivious to her presence, he murmurs to himself: “This might be the best and worst idea Professor Brown has ever had.” His voice cuts through the damp air before he even looks at her, “How could I possibly translate this scenery into a formal lecture? Nature always wins.”

Elara giggles, and without a second thought asks, ”Are you always this philosophical when you go for a walk?”

The young man finally turns his head, his gaze dropping to meet hers. A slow, warm smile breaks across his face as he recognizes the posture, the long hair, and the long line of her neck.

”Only when the architecture of a place demands it.” He takes a step closer, though he carefully respects the boundary of her space this time. He glances from the pavilion back to her, a small, blushed smile tugging at his mouth. “And apparently, only when I need a witness to my public overthinking.”

He slips his hands into his pockets, the tension from their awkward bookstore collision completely replaced by a quiet, electric curiosity. “I’m Kiran, by the way. I believe I have a habit of getting in your way.”

Elara feels the last of her timid armor vanish, a genuine, bright laugh escaping her lips as she stands up from the stone bench. “And I have a habit of shaking the weather onto you. I’m Elara.”

An easy, shared laugh breaks the space between them.

“A few extra fog drops won’t hurt anyone,” Kiran says. “So tell me, what brings you to the abandoned pavilion? Just sketching?” He nods toward the sketchbook resting on the bench.

“This old place has the best view of the sunset. Even though it was left to weather throughout the years, it has aged beautifully. Somehow everything here feels amplified—the sound of the ocean, the rush of the wind, the framed sky. I sketch it to imprint it in my head.”

Kiran lets out a soft chuckle, a knowing look in his eye. “And who is being philosophical now?”

She tilts her head slightly down to hide her flushed smile. Quickly getting up, attempting to shift the conversation, she grabs her sketchbook and says: “It is dusk. We should probably make our way back to High Street.”

He nods, stepping back to clear her path. “After you,” he says, gesturing toward the trail.

They slowly start to make their way back to High Street. Along the walk, Kiran explains that he is in town on a sabbatical, and was suddenly asked by his former professor at the nearby college to give a lecture on the architecture of the old Fish Market. Elara listens, realizing she was right. “I thought I saw you at the B&B,” she admits, “but I wasn’t quite sure.”

They talk the rest of the way down the path. As soon as they reach the edge of High Street, the village lights flicker on around them. Kiran looks down the street, then turns back to her. “Should I walk you home? It is a bit dark out.”

“I know this place like the back of my hand,” Elara says. “How about I walk you back to the B&B? I wouldn’t be a good local if I let you wander without a compass.”

He accepts with a nod and a smile.

They walk the remaining blocks in a comfortable quiet. As soon as they reach the steps of the B&B, Kiran breaks the impending silence. “Thanks for guiding me back. It was a pleasure to officially meet you, Elara. I hope the book’s publishing is a success.”

Not really wanting to leave just yet, he offers a slightly rigid wave.

Elara waves back and turns to walk away, a familiar, sinking feeling tightening in her stomach.

Before she can get more than a few paces down the sidewalk, his voice catches her. “Elara.”

She stops, turning back to face him. “Yes?”

He takes a step toward her, rubbing the back of his neck. “I am giving that lecture this weekend at the college. If you aren’t too busy, and feel like seeing the fish market with different eyes… please come. It’s this Friday at 6:30. Just in time to ruin everyone else’s Friday night plans.”

Elara looks at him, the heavy feeling in her stomach completely vanishing as a smile catches the corner of her mouth. “Though I can’t promise anything, ruining Friday night plans sounds like exactly my kind of evening. I will try my best.”