She was a lighthouse wrapped in fog.
Not the kind that warned of danger, no—hers was the soft beacon on a forgotten cliff, the kind that hummed lullabies in Morse and kept the ghosts of shipwrecks company. Every blink of her light was a secret held too long.
He was a storm dressed in Sunday clothes.
He arrived in thunderous silence, all polite lightning and borrowed calm. He carried a skyful of...
