The old porch sagged a little, as though weary of its years spent facing the ceaseless push and pull of the Pacific. Evelyn Bellweather settled into her usual chair, the worn cushions yielding with a sigh that mirrored her own. The wood, bleached silver by sun and scoured by countless storms, felt cool beneath her fingertips. It was a ritual, this evening vigil. A ceremony performed for an audience of one, herself.
The air, as always, tasted of salt. A tang that clung to the tongue, a constant reminder of the vast, unknowable ocean that stretched out before her, an endless expanse of gray meeting a hazy, indistinct horizon. The sun, a molten coin slipping into the sea, cast long shadows across the small garden that spilled from the edge of the porch, a riot of color stubbornly refusing to surrender to the encroaching dusk. Foxgloves, their speckled throats whispering secrets to the bees, stood tall and proud, their purple hues deepening in the fading light. Hydrangeas, their blooms a faded blue like a summer sky after a storm, huddled together, whispering amongst themselves.
Evelyn closed her eyes, drawing in the scent of the sea, the damp earth, the sweet fragrance of roses past their prime. A symphony of the ordinary, yet imbued with a profound sense of peace. Or, perhaps, a carefully cultivated illusion of peace. The truth was, the quiet hum of her days was often punctuated by a discordant note, a persistent echo of what might have been.
The house itself, a small, weathered cottage painted a faded shade of blue, seemed to breathe with her. Built by her grandfather, a fisherman with hands as rough as barnacle-encrusted rocks and a heart as deep as the ocean he sailed, it had witnessed generations of Bellweathers come and go. Births, deaths, weddings, quiet evenings like this one. Each event leaving its mark, a faint patina on the walls, a subtle shift in the atmosphere.