Page 88 of Hometown Harbor

We ferried back home that night. I stood at the bow with Eric at my side, our shoulders touching as we watched Ironhook approach through the settling dark.

The lighthouse beam swept across the sea—silent and steady.

By the time we reached the island, the sky had cleared into a sharp, ink-washed night. An impossible sprawl of stars spread above the pines.

We didn't even bother stopping at the cottage. Just walked past, still carrying our bags and crunching over frost-hardened soil, up toward the cliffs.

We'd reconstructed parts of the trail since the collapse last year, but we already knew it by heart.

At the overlook, Eric sat down on a dry patch of grass and looked up. "Think it's still there?"

I lowered myself beside him, letting the night settle around us like a second skin. "Only one way to find out."

He pointed, arm steady, finger extended. "There's the spout, tilted just enough. Handle's a stretch tonight."

I followed his gaze. Stars blinked, a little shy at first. Then I saw it. The constellation only we knew—except for the thirsty polar bears.

"The Coffee Pot of the North," I said. "Still brewing."

Eric leaned into me, his head against my shoulder. We didn't say anything after that. We didn't need to.

The wind moved through the brush, and the sea kept crashing against the rocks below. And above us, our little stitched-together constellation hung steady, even if no one else could see it.

It was enough that we could.

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