Chapter 9: Madeline

The second the front door clicks shut behind me, the world changes.

It’s quiet—truly quiet. That heavy, coastal kind of quiet, where even the wind has manners. There’s a faint mist clinging to the ground, the last remnants of the rain that passed through earlier, and the sky above is navy blue and full of stars, the moon hanging low and bright like it was put there just for me.

Northhaven after dark feels like something out of a dream. Or a memory. Or both.

The only sound is the soft crush of my boots against the damp gravel as I walk down the little stone path and back up the narrow stairs I’d first come down earlier that day. My scarf is wrapped high around my mouth, and I tug it just a little tighter, not because I’m cold—but because I like the way it makes the air feel warmer.

I reach the top of the hill and pause, looking back at the old white house.

Its windows glow gently from the inside, warm and golden, like it’s holding everyone I’ve met today in the palm of its hand.

Then I turn and head for town.

It doesn’t take long. Everything in Northhaven seems to be five minutes away, even when it’s uphill or winding or unreasonably foggy. The damp air softens the outlines of the buildings, but I can still make them out—the peaked roofs, the chipped paint, the overgrown gardens that probably looked charming in the daylight.

The town isn’t asleep. It's resting.

One porch light flickers on the corner, casting long reflections onto the wet sidewalk. A single gull cries somewhere near the harbor, echoing low and distant. Somewhere across the road, a dog barks once, short and uninterested. I look up and spot an older woman walking a squat, grumpy little dog in a yellow rain jacket.

She gives me a nod.

I nod back.

The entire exchange feels ceremonial—Welcome. You belong here now.

I keep walking.

The grocery store is closed, of course, its windows dark and shelves barely visible beyond the film of condensation. But I recognize the outline of the sign from earlier. Next to it is the Salt Water Taffy shop, its window full of jars and small chalkboard signs promising “50+ Flavors” and something called “Maple Explosion.”

Its hanging sign sways a little in the breeze.

Across the street, the coffee shop’s sign still glows softly. Dock Square Coffee House. There’s a handmade “Closed” sign dangling in the window, but I can just make out the outline of books on a low shelf inside. There's a warmth in its shape, like it’s the kind of place that makes you want to sit for hours and pretend to write a novel.

Next to it is the fish and chips shop—red neon buzzing faintly in the fog. BRIT & CHIPS. Someone’s left the Union Jack curtains half-drawn, and there’s an open ketchup packet stuck to the wooden bench outside. I can smell the last of the fried oil in the air, like the ghost of dinner still lingering in the walls.

There’s a laundromat, too—its pale blue exterior damp and a little warped from salt. The spinning drums are still visible through the dark windows, like time stopped halfway through someone’s rinse cycle.

And further down—maybe the only truly awake thing in this whole place—is the bar.

Its sign glows red and loud in the otherwise hushed street: Seafoam Bar. It blinks a little, one of the letters not quite lighting up all the way, and it throws strange pink shadows onto the sidewalk below. There’s music humming inside—soft, maybe a country song—and the dull clink of glass.

I walk past it without stopping.

Not because I’m afraid. But because this feels like a moment meant for me. A thread being pulled slowly, one I don’t want to interrupt by crashing into someone else's noise.

Across the street is a small white building with a hand-painted sign that just says “MOTEL.” Its windows are yellowed with time, and a red plastic chair sits outside one of the doors, as if someone once smoked a cigarette there and never came back.

Everything is damp. Not wet—but held. Like the town itself is always just coming out of the ocean, shaking off droplets and sighing into its old skin.

I move slowly. Not because I’m tired, but because there’s something holy about this part of night.

A side of Northhaven no one told me about. Not in the interview. Not in the welcome emails or packing lists.

The part where you can feel the bones of the place. The stillness, the aching rhythm of sea towns that live and breathe by tide.

I stop in front of a narrow alley between buildings. There’s a view straight down to the water—ghostly shapes of ships at rest, ropes swaying, a few soft lights glowing red and green in the fog. Gulls flutter from dock to post like shadows.

The smell of salt and diesel is faint, but familiar.

I stand there for a while, watching the dark ripples roll across the surface. The boats seem to breathe. To wait.

I wonder which one I’ll be on Tuesday.

I wonder who I’ll be when I step off it.

I don’t head straight back.

Instead, I turn down a side road—narrow, lined with short white fences and low shrubs. A row of squat townhouses runs alongside it, all of them quietly dozing under the weight of the moonlight. The windows glow blue behind sheer curtains, some with porch lights still on, others dark and tucked in for the night.

To the left, I can just make out the edge of the forest. The trees blur at the top into a single mass, swaying like they’re breathing. There’s something ancient about them. Something that makes me walk slower, quieter.

That’s when I see it—the only traffic light I’ve noticed in Northhaven so far.

It’s small, almost an afterthought, sitting at an empty intersection like someone installed it just to make the place feel official. The red light glows against the fog, casting a crimson sheen across the puddled pavement.

There are no cars. No footsteps. No noise but the wind.

I stop at the crosswalk anyway.

And I wait.

Because this town doesn’t seem to ask for much. Just a little patience. A little reverence. If there’s only one traffic light in the entire place, then maybe it deserves to be respected.

I stand there, hands in my coat pockets, looking up at it like it might tell me something.

Then—

Headlights slice through the fog behind me. A low hum of an engine. Slow. Controlled.

A car pulls up beside me at the intersection, stopping gently like it has all the time in the world.

The driver’s side window lowers with a quiet electric whir.

“Hey,” a voice says. Low. Warm. Slightly amused. “You okay?”

I turn my head.

And then I forget how.

Because the man behind the wheel—

Holy.

He’s—

Okay.

Dark hair, messy but not on accident. Olive skin warmed by the dash lights. Shadowed jaw, slightly pink lips, dark brown eyes that blink slowly as they study me like I’m an unusual species of bird on a power line.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually by his face, index finger grazing his temple. He's the most breathtaking man I have ever seen.

“I—yeah.” I manage, though it comes out more like a squeak than a sentence.

His eyes flick up to the traffic light, still red. He gestures toward it with his chin.

“Not crossing?”

“It’s red,” I say, like a total genius.

A beat of silence. He glances both ways dramatically—left, right—and then back at me with a slight grin.

“There’s no one here.”

I swallow. My mouth’s dry. My brain’s mostly soup.

“I just thought…” I shrug, suddenly aware of how dumb it sounds. “I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t want to be rude.”

“To the light?”

“Yes.”

He laughs. A soft, short exhale through his nose, but it’s real. And devastating.

“Respectful,” he says. “That’s rare.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I can’t remember how to say anything. I blink at him, trying not to gape like a small-town extra in a teen drama.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” he asks. His voice is calm. Easy. Like this happens to him all the time—late night encounters with strange girls and strange lights. “It’s pretty dead out.”

“I’m good,” I say quickly. “I live close by.”

His eyebrows lift, just a bit. “You live here?”

I nod. “As of today.”

That gets a pause.

And then the smirk.

Not a wide one—not cocky. Just the faintest twitch of his lips. Like he knows something I don’t, and he’s too polite to say it out loud.

“Right,” he says. “Well. Welcome.”

The light turns green.

He looks at it. Then back at me.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, as casually as someone saying bless you after a sneeze.

And then the window slides back up, and the car pulls forward into the fog.

I watch the red taillights fade into the mist like they were never there. Like he was never there.

But I can still feel the conversation humming under my skin. Still feel the weight of his gaze. The way my heart tripped over itself just trying to keep up.

I don’t even realize I’ve turned around until I see the outline of the little white house in the distance again, warm and waiting at the top of the hill.

I walk slower this time. Not because I’m tired—but because I need a minute to collect whatever pieces of my dignity that guy just accidentally scattered across the pavement.

Because I don’t know who he is.

I don’t know his name, or what he does, or where he's going.

But what I do know—

Is that if this town was feeling asleep before…

It’s wide awake now.