Chapter 4 The stories we don't tell

Three days passed before Victory saw him again.

She kept herself busy sketching around Windmere Bay - the old fisherman's wharf, the chapel with ivy climbing its stones, the lighthouse that blinked like a patient heartbeat at dusk. But every evening, her eyes would wander toward the dock, wondering if Frank would be there. And every night, she told herself not to care if he wasn't.

On the fourth evening, he was.

Same place, same quiet posture, as if the world could collapse around him and he'd still point his telescope toward the sky.

"You show up like clockwork," Victory said, walking up with two paper cups of cocoa.

He raised an eyebrow. "Do I?"

She handed him one of the cups. "Thought I'd try bribery."

He took it without argument, nodding his thanks. The steam swirled between them like smoke from a shared secret.

"I've been wondering something," Victory said, sitting beside him.

Frank glanced at her, waiting.

"If you look at the stars every night," she continued, "do they ever start to look the same?"

He shook his head. "No. They're always moving. Slowly. Sometimes you don't notice the change unless you've been watching a long time."

"That sounds lonely."

"It is. But it's honest."

Victory looked down at her cup. "I came here because I needed to stop pretending I was okay. Back in the city, I wore a smile so long it started to feel like skin. But inside... I was tired. Not sad. Just... tired of carrying things no one could see."

Frank looked at her differently then - not with sympathy, but recognition.

"You ever tell anyone?" he asked.

"No one ever asked."

Silence stretched between them, not empty but full. Of things they hadn't said. Of things they might never say. And yet, somehow, it felt enough.

The stars shimmered above like they were listening.

And for the first time in years, Frank realized: maybe some people don't just pass through. Maybe they arrive exactly when the night is darkest - and stay until the stars begin to fade.