Chapter 4: The Tide Turns 

Nora's laptop glowed in the dim cottage, casting blue light over stacks of papers—grant applications, structural reports, anything she could scrape together to save the lighthouse. She rubbed her eyes, the clock ticking past midnight. Coffee had gone cold in her mug, but she didn't care. Elias's words from yesterday still gnawed at her: There's no 'we' here, Nora. You made sure of that. He wasn't wrong, and that's what stung most.

She'd left him. No explanation, no goodbye—just a bus ticket to Boston and a heart she'd locked up tight. Back then, it'd felt like the only way to keep him safe from her dad's mess—debts, threats, the kind of shame that stuck to a small town like tar. But seeing those initials in the lighthouse, hearing the bite in his voice, made her wonder if she'd saved him or just broken them both.

A knock rattled the door, sharp and insistent. She jolted, spilling coffee across her notes. "Damn it," she muttered, grabbing a rag as she crossed the room. She yanked the door open, expecting Meg with more history books. Instead, it was Elias, hands in his pockets, hair damp from the drizzle outside.

"What the hell?" she said, stepping back. "It's midnight."

"Couldn't sleep," he said, voice rough. "Jimmy called. Crew found cracks in the lighthouse—bad ones. Council's holding off demo 'til we check it out. Thought you'd want to know."

Her pulse kicked up. "That's good, right? Gives me time."

He shrugged, but his eyes didn't meet hers. "Maybe. Or it's just more work for nothing. Either way, I'm stuck inspecting it tomorrow. You in or not?"

She hesitated. Working with him meant more arguments, more chances to dig up the past. But it was the lighthouse—her shot. "I'm in," she said. "What time?"

"Eight. Bring coffee. Mine's shit." He turned to go, then paused. "And Nora? Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

"Me?" She laughed, sharp and tired. "You're the one tearing down my life."

He didn't answer, just trudged back to his truck, taillights fading into the mist. She shut the door, leaning against it, her heart thudding too loud. "Asshole," she whispered, but it didn't feel true.

Morning came too fast, gray and damp. Nora pulled into the lighthouse lot at 7:55, a thermos of coffee in hand. Elias was already there, leaning against his truck, talking to a wiry woman with gray curls and a clipboard—Meg, the historian Nora had roped in last week. She'd been a godsend, digging up old logs and photos to bolster the preservation case.

"Morning," Nora called, climbing out. She held up the thermos. "As requested."

Elias took it, pouring a cup without a word. Meg grinned. "Heard about the cracks. Good news for us, huh?"

"Depends," Elias said, sipping. "If it's too far gone, they'll just scrap it faster."

Nora bristled. "Or we fix it. I've got grant leads—federal stuff, historical trusts. Meg's got the paperwork to back it up."

Meg nodded, tapping her clipboard. "Built in 1872. Survived storms, wars. It's a survivor, like us."

Elias grunted, unconvinced, and headed for the tower. "Let's see what we're dealing with."

Inside, the air was colder, the cracks stark against the east wall—jagged lines spidering up the stone. Elias ran a hand over one, frowning. "This is deep. Load-bearing, maybe."

Nora crouched beside him, peering at it. "Can it be patched?"

"Maybe," he said. "But it's not cheap. Concrete's one thing—finding the cash is another."

"I'll find it," she said, standing. "You just tell me what it needs."

He looked up at her, something flickering in his eyes—respect, maybe, or just exhaustion. "You always this stubborn?"

"Only when it matters," she shot back.

Meg interrupted, waving them up the stairs. "Come on, you two. Top's where the real story is."

They climbed, the spiral tight and creaking, Elias's boots thudding behind Nora. At the lantern room, the view hit her like it always did—endless sea, cliffs dropping sharp into the waves. The old beacon sat silent, glass cracked but still proud. Meg started rattling off facts—storms it'd guided ships through, keepers who'd lived and died here—but Nora's eyes snagged on Elias.

He stood by the railing, staring out, hands gripping the metal. She stepped closer, quiet. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he said, too quick. "Just… been a while."

She nodded, the pact whispering between them. They'd stood here once, young and fearless, promising things they couldn't keep. Now the silence was heavy, the wind tugging at their clothes.

"We can save it," she said softly. "I know we can."

He turned, meeting her gaze. "Hope you're right, Nora. 'Cause I'm tired of breaking things."

For once, she didn't argue. They just stood there, the sea crashing below, and she wondered if he meant the lighthouse—or them.