The next morning, the storm had passed, leaving the Maine coastline washed in a cold, clear light.

I walked down to the rocky shore with Noah, our boots crunching on the frozen seaweed.

He was quiet, holding a smooth grey stone in his small gloved hand.

“Do you like living here?” I asked him.

“It’s quiet,” Noah said, throwing the stone into the grey water. “But Mom works too hard.”

“She does,” I agreed. “She shouldn’t have to.”

“Are you going to stay?” he asked, looking up at me with eyes that were exactly like my own.

“Only if your mom says it’s okay,” I said. “And only if you and Lila want me to.”

He didn’t answer right away, instead looking out at a lobster boat bobbing on the horizon.

“I think Lila likes you,” he said finally. “She kept the drawing you made.”

“And what about you?” I asked gently.

“You’re okay,” he said, a small shrug moving his shoulders. “You don’t talk like the people on TV.”

I let out a soft laugh, the cold air catching my breath in a white cloud.