Later that afternoon, the air outside the café turned cooler, touched by the wind rolling in from the hills. Sarah was unpacking a box of cups when the door creaked open again.
"I brought more tea," Mrs. Harper said, holding a small tin. "Chamomile. Thought you might need it."
Sarah smiled, genuinely grateful. "You didn't have to—"
"Oh, hush," Mrs. Harper cut in with a wave. "You'll learn I never listen when someone tells me I've done enough."
Sarah chuckled and motioned toward the kettle. "It's still warm."
They settled in again, the basket of muffins now half-empty, the room still smelling faintly of wood polish and cinnamon. Silence filled the space between them for a while, comfortable but heavy. Mrs. Harper's gaze drifted toward the staircase in the corner, leading up to the second floor.
"Your boy—Ryan, is it?"
Sarah nodded, a little too quickly.
"He's quiet. Like someone who's carrying more than he lets on."
Sarah lowered her eyes. "He's been through a lot."
"I can imagine," Mrs. Harper said gently. "Moving back here… it must've stirred up old things."
Sarah didn't respond right away.
"I always wondered why you left so suddenly back then," Mrs. Harper continued. "No goodbye. No note. One day you were walking to school in that blue denim jacket of yours, and the next—gone."
Sarah's fingers tightened around her mug.
Mrs. Harper hesitated. Then, gently: "Is Ryan's father from Rosehill?"
The room went still.
Sarah stared into her tea. "I… don't want to talk about him."
Mrs. Harper nodded slowly. "Fair enough."
Another silence. Not as comfortable this time.
"I'm just glad you're here," Mrs. Harper said finally. "Even if it took you years."
Sarah looked up, her voice quiet. "Me too."
As Mrs. Harper left, she paused at the door. "Whatever happened back then… you don't have to carry it alone, you know."
Sarah didn't reply, but her eyes lingered on the door long after it shut.