Page 125 of Take Me Away

My throat closes. I crouch down to her level. ‘Yes, love. We’re going to sing him home.’

‘Like the songs Grandad taught me? About the boats and the sea?’

‘Just like those.’

She nods, solemn as a judge. ‘Good. Mr Peter would like that.’

She would know. Peter spent a lot of his time at this cottage, especially after Jess died, teaching Maisie knots and showing her how to spot different gulls. Patient as the tide.

And now he’s gone because of me.

‘Go get your warm jumper,’ I tell Maisie. ‘The blue one with the stars.’

She scampers off, and I straighten. Isla’s still there, steady. Always there lately.

‘I should shower,’ I say. ‘Change.’

‘I’ll make tea,’ she says. ‘And toast. You need to eat something.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘I know. Eat anyway.’

I almost smile. ‘Bossy.’

‘Someone has to be.’

This time I do smile, just barely. Then I head upstairs to wash the last three days off my skin and try to feel human again.

By the time we’re ready to leave, the sun’s sinking low over the harbour. October light, thin and gold, stretching shadows long across the cobbles. These last days of October before the clocks change are always special. From the last weekend of the month everything changes. The mornings are brisker, the nights longer. Just now though, the sun still kisses the calm sea with a lingering touch, reminding us that no matter how long winter is, summer will come again.

Jude’s waiting outside when we emerge. He doesn’t say anything, just falls into step beside me. Dad’s already halfway down the lane, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind.

Maisie’s hand is tucked in mine, small and trusting. Isla walks on my other side, close enough that our arms brush with every step.

The walk to the Ship feels like a funeral march.

The village is gathering in the dusk – shadowy figures converging on the pub like moths to light. I recognise them all: Dot, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. The Penrose brothers, still in their overalls. The Harpers who run the B&B on the clifftop.

They’re here for Peter.

They’re here for Nina.

Some of them are here for me.

I don’t deserve it.

‘You okay?’ Isla’s voice, quiet beside me.

‘No.’

‘Good. You shouldn’t be.’

Her honesty steadies me. No platitudes. No false comfort. No ‘it wasn’t your fault’ or ‘you did everything you could’. Just truth.

I love her for it.

The thought catches me off guard, but it’s there, solid and undeniable. Not just want. Not just need. Love. The kind that roots deep and doesn’t let go.