Elena stayed with Rowan that night.
Not because she had to, but because something had shifted inside both of them—quietly, irrevocably. The kiss hadn't solved anything. But it had cracked the silence.
They didn't talk about it.
They didn't need to.
---
The next morning, while Rowan brewed coffee in his cottage's tiny kitchen, Elena flipped through the old sketchbook from the sea chest. Page after page bled with emotion—seascapes, portraits, unfinished ideas. All in Matthew's hand.
Until she found it.
Tucked near the back, a charcoal drawing of a woman—young, sharp-featured, elegant in a timeless way.
Elena froze.
It was her grandmother.
As a young woman.
Smiling.
Beneath it: a single line written in Matthew's distinct, slanted script.
> "She loved me in secret. The sea kept our promise."
Her breath caught.
"Elena?" Rowan called. "You okay?"
She stood, still holding the sketchbook. "You need to see this."
He looked at the drawing for a long time, eyes darting over the curves of the face, the expression—the truth.
"That's her," he said. "That's your grandmother."
"She was older than him," Elena whispered. "But they were… involved."
"Not just involved," Rowan muttered, flipping to the next page.
There was a painting tucked inside—a watercolor, fast and vivid. A child. Small. Blond curls. Bright blue eyes.
A name written below.
> "Luca"
Rowan's brow furrowed. "Wait… I know that name."
He pulled out his phone, scrolling through saved articles from the local paper—searching, muttering, until he froze.
He turned the screen toward her.
> "Local Boy, 14, Receives National Award for Environmental Work — Luca Hartley of Evermare."
Hartley.
Elena's knees nearly gave out.
"My grandmother had a child no one in the family talked about. My mom always said there was a rift… but Luca would've been born right after Matthew died."
She looked up at Rowan. "Luca is his son."
Rowan staggered back, pale.
"That means… you're related to him," he said. "Which means… all this time, our families—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Because what it meant was forbidden.
What it meant was complicated.
And what it meant… was real.
---
The silence between them stretched, thick with realization.
Elena finally spoke.
"That doesn't change what I feel, Rowan."
His voice cracked. "Doesn't it? I don't even know who I am anymore. I spent my life hating the mystery—and now I'm standing in the middle of it with you."
She reached for him, gently. "We didn't choose the past. But maybe we can choose what we do with it."
He stepped back. "I need to think."
And just like that—he left.
---
That night, Elena sat alone with the sketchbook in her lap, and the storm rolled back in.
But this time, she wasn't afraid of it.
Because she finally understood what "lock the light" meant.
Not protect it.
Not hide it.
Release it.
Even if it broke the sea open.
---