The city began to feel hostile.

  Not loud—London had always been loud—but sharp, like every sound was aimed directly at him. Doors closed too hard. Voices cut too close. Even silence felt aggressive, pressing in on him until his skin buzzed with the need to move.

  Michael stopped pretending he was fine.

  He stopped answering emails unless they were urgent. Stopped attending meetings that weren't mandatory. Stopped letting Samantha touch him without flinching, though that only seemed to harden something in her gaze.

  "You're pulling away," she said one night, standing in the doorway as he packed a small bag.

  "I need air," he replied. His voice was flat, exhausted. "Just a few days."

  Her lips pressed together. "Running won't fix you."

  The word you landed heavily, as if he were the problem to be solved.

  "I'm not running," he said, though even to himself it sounded like a lie. "I just… need to remember who I was beforeall this."

  She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Whitby isn't real life, Michael. It's a fantasy. And you know what happens when you chase fantasies."

  He didn't answer. He zipped the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and left before she could say anything else that might stick.

  The drive north blurred into a single, relentless motion. Motorway lights streaked past like falling stars. He kept the radio off, needing the silence to stay intact, to hold him together.

  With every mile, something in his chest loosened.

  By the time the road narrowed and the air began to smell like salt and wet stone, he could breathe again.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Whitby emerged from the darkness slowly, lights scattered along the cliffs like watchful eyes. He didn't stop at the flat. Didn't go to the restaurant.

  He parked near the harbour and walked.

  The sea was restless, waves breaking hard against the wall, spray catching the moonlight. The wind tore at his coat, cold and clean and honest in a way London never was.

  He leaned against the railing and let it hit him.

  Everything.

  The abuse. The control. The way Samantha's voice had replaced his own. The fear that he was broken beyond repair. The ache of something unfinished pulling him north like a tide.

  Willow.

  Her name surfaced without effort, carrying warmth with it. The memory of her kitchen, her quiet presence, the way she never demanded anything from him—only offered.

  He didn't know what he would say if he saw her.

  But he knew he couldn't stay away anymore.

  At Field of Waves, the last lights went out as Willow locked up for the night. She paused, hand on the door, the sudden certainty hitting her so hard she nearly laughed.

  He's here.

  She didn't know how she knew. She only knew that the air felt different—charged, expectant, like the moment before a storm breaks.

  She turned toward the harbour, heart pounding.

  And began to walk.

  Willow's Diary

  Something is calling you home.

  I feel it in my bones

  the way the sea feels the moon.

  If you come back broken,

  I will not ask why.

  Poem — North

  Every road bends eventually

  toward what made you whole.

  If you follow the ache,

  it will lead you

  where you are needed.