Chapter 4: Madeline
The door opens with a soft creak, and for a second, I don’t even breathe.
It’s not big. Not at all. The ceiling slopes sharply to the left, following the shape of the roofline, low enough that if I were any taller, I’d have to duck to walk through. The walls are warm, aged wood—dark and uneven, like the inside of a tree. Two narrow windows sit on either side of the bed, draped in thin, off-white curtains that ripple gently with the breeze slipping in through a tiny crack. There’s another window at the foot of the bed, half-fogged from the difference in temperature outside.
The bed itself is small and pushed against the wall. The comforter is floral, faded but soft-looking, tangled in a half-circle like someone left it mid-dream. A book lies closed near the pillow, its cover turned toward the lamplight. There’s a red side table beside the bed, scuffed and chipped, with a water glass and an empty mug still sitting on it. A braided oval rug softens the old wood floor, and a tiny dresser crouches against the wall—three drawers, one slightly crooked.
Charlie leans casually on the doorframe behind me. “Cozy, right?”
I smile. “Yeah.”
I mean it.
Because this? This doesn’t overwhelm me.
I’ve had rooms this small before. Most of them were smaller. I’ve slept on fold-out chairs, on lumpy futons, in crowded apartments where the only personal space was the bathroom and even that had a broken lock. I wouldn’t know what to do with more space. Too much room and I start to pace like an animal in a museum enclosure. This? This I can breathe in.
I set my bags down on the bed. They land with a soft whump, and something shifts in my chest—something small and quiet and full of newness.
Charlie stretches her arms above her head and lets them fall loose at her sides. “I was baking something earlier. I should go check it, but I’ll see you down there in a bit?”
There’s a question mark at the end—like she’s not just being polite. Like she actually wants to see me later.
I nod. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
She gives me one more smile—less dazzling this time, more comfortable—and disappears down the hall, the wooden floor creaking under her boots.
I wait until the quiet settles back in before I sit down on the bed. The mattress dips under me like it’s letting out a long breath. I press my palms into the quilt and take a moment, just one, to let the weight of being here sink in.
Then I unzip the first bag.
Sweaters.
So many sweaters.
Chunky knits in forest green and navy and oatmeal. Wool cardigans with worn elbows. A few oversized crewnecks I stole from thrift stores and one I found in my dad’s old closet, still faintly smelling like cedar. Thick socks roll out next—some new, most not—stitched with flecks of color, folded and refolded over the years. Two pairs of fleece-lined leggings. A stack of thermal shirts. Gloves. Hats. A neck warmer I almost didn’t pack and already know I’ll be glad I did.
I didn’t fool myself into thinking this would be a warm summer.
Not here.
Not in a place where the sun fights through clouds like it owes someone money and the ocean is always just a little angry. You can hear it through the window, even now—low and constant, like it’s talking to itself. Like it’s been having the same conversation for centuries and refuses to be done.
I fold everything carefully, tucking the layers into the three narrow drawers in the dresser. It’s not much space, but it’s enough. I hang my heavier jackets—my green L.L. Bean, my tan canvas Carhartt, and a denim chore coat I wear into battle when the weather's especially awful—on the hooks behind the door. The weight of them feels good, like armor.
Then I pull out the books. A small stack—four paperbacks, one battered field notebook, and a folder of my research notes and internship documents. I stack them neatly on the floor next to the bed, spines outward. There’s no shelf, but I don’t mind. This works.
Next comes the shower caddy.
Clear plastic, slightly cracked at one corner. Shampoo, conditioner, a bottle of brown sugar body wash I splurged on because I knew I’d need something to make me feel human after long, wet days at sea. A bar of charcoal soap, my toothbrush, toothpaste, a wide-toothed comb, razor, and moisturizer. It’s all there, tucked in like puzzle pieces.
I assume there’s a shared bathroom. That’s just how these places work, right?
I crack the door open and peer out into the hallway.
It’s quiet again, the kind of quiet that lets you hear every creak in the floor and every whisper of wind against the windows. I count the doors as I go—mine, another across the hall, one left open with a stack of towels inside, and then—
There. Three doors down.
The washroom.
I push the door open.
And stop.
It’s… gorgeous.
Bigger than my room, somehow. The ceiling beams stretch up instead of down, the wood warm and golden in the dim light. The clawfoot tub sits in the corner, white porcelain against black legs, framed by a hex-tiled floor in a pattern that looks older than time. Next to it, a rain-style showerhead hangs above glass panels separated by dark metal framing, like a vintage greenhouse door turned sideways. There’s a soft rug on the floor, worn but clean. A wooden stool by the tub holds a dry brush and a mason jar full of sea salt. A chair with a woven seat sits by the window, beside a radiator that hums softly.
And the light—honey-colored and quiet—slants in through the single window and falls across everything like it was placed there on purpose.
I step inside without meaning to, the door creaking gently shut behind me.
The room smells faintly of pine soap and something herbal—rosemary, maybe. Everything’s warm, but not too polished. Like someone cared just enough to keep it loved, not enough to make it cold.
I already know.
This is going to be my favorite room in the house.
The idea of coming back here after a long day on the water, skin cold and muscles sore, and stepping into a hot shower—steam curling around the beams, water pounding against my scalp, the sea washed clean off my skin—God, it sounds like heaven.
I smile without meaning to.
Just one of those quiet, secret smiles you make when something feels right.
I don’t know what tomorrow brings yet.
But tonight?
I think I might sleep like I mean it.