Mist curls through the pines this morning, wrapping itself around the lowest branches and the leaves and twigs scattered across the forest floor. The last of the snow will melt soon, and the fiddleheads will start their slow unfurling into ferns. The birds will come back.

It's funny how much of your humanity comes down to such small things: going outside when you want to, wearing your own clothes, watching the forest wake. I've been out of jail now for five years and I'm still grateful for every single morning. In spite of everything.

Still, my mood shadows when I get closer to my mom's coffee shop. My boots crunch across the icy gravel lot, the only sound around for miles. I notice a car I've never seen before and wonder who will be there today to stare at me and whisper. My mom tells me all the time not to let them rattle me, but it's not that I feel rattled—it's that each little glance or whispered piece of gossip is a sharp, painful reminder of everything I've lost.

I steel myself and push open the door. The hum of happy voices falls silent. The usual townies turn eagerly to stare at me. But I hardly register their presence, because I only have eyes for the girl standing in front of my mom's counter. She's a stranger, and she is beautiful—long black hair, golden-brown skin, dark eyes. She glances up at me. And in her eyes is that same flicker of fear as always. I don't know why it hurts when I see it. Everybody is afraid of me—why shouldn't she be?

The only difference is that I don't know this girl. At first, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth, reminding me of the handful of journalists who came to stay here after I got out of jail. They all wanted the story of the murderer who went free.

But as I walk up to the counter, trying to ignore her, I can't help noticing the way fear in her eyes ebbs away. As if she was afraid I'd be someone else, and when it's just me, she's relieved. I've never seen that before. It's sort of... hypnotic.

"Morning, sweetie," my mother says cheerfully from behind the counter. "Owen, this is Miranda Lewis. She's new in town. Isn't that nice?"

I hesitate by the pastry case, drumming my fingers on the glass. She can't be a journalist, can she? The story is so old now. And she doesn't look on point and curious. She looks like a runaway: her long hair falls in tangled waves around her elegant neck and down along the curves of her breasts. Her clothes are nice—high-heeled boots and a snug leather jacket—but it's like she slept in them.

"By yourself this morning?" my mother asks me. She's glad about that, of course.

"Jenny has to work," I say, tearing myself away from the girl. Jenny teaches piano, so her hours are odd. So are mine. It seemed like a good fit, once.

"Owen, bless his heart, helps me with my dogs on his days off," Claire tells the girl. "I don't know what I'd do without him. I have six Great Danes, you know."

The girl blinks her big, dark eyes. "You have six dogs?"

Claire gives an embarrassed chuckle. "Six Danes, all named after the English Romantic Poets."

"You mean like Keats? And William Blake?" Claire nods, and the girl ticks off the rest of the names on her fingers. "Coleridge, Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley..."

"And Wordsworth," Claire said. "You must be a poetry buff!"

"Or an English major?" I suggest, still trying to figure her out. She could be a college student who just pulled an all-nighter. But that doesn't explain why she's here, of all places, or why her posture, her every breath, seems so fragile.

"I'm not an English major," she says softly.

The phone in the back of the shop rings all of the sudden, and my mom hurries off to answer it. I should say something friendly to the girl. Something welcoming.

"If you're not an English major, what are you?" I ask her, gruff and sour as usual. It's like I don't remember how to be kind. Like I've locked off that part of me.

Her cheeks flush a dark rose. "I'm nothing."

"Nothing?" The worst part is I kind of know what she means. I've been nothing for a long time.

"I used to work in a coffee shop," she says. "Though it wasn't nice, like this." She gestures at the little shop. "And I'm not going back there," she says suddenly, with a little flare of defiance in the tilt of her chin. She is fierce, underneath that fragility.

"What was wrong with it?" I ask.

"It wasn't the shop, really," she admits. "There was other stuff."

I nod. I want to say more, to comfort her. To see that fiery spirit again. But I know I should avoid her. Talking to her, especially in full view of all of these gossiping townies, will do neither of us any good.

I glance past her towards the cafe tables, where Joan Hinter and her two quilting circle cronies are smiling coldly at me. I'd count Mrs. Hinter as one of my stalkers, except that I can't be bothered.

"Good morning, Owen," Mrs. Hinter simpers. "I hope you haven't had any problems so far this spring?"

"Nothing worth mentioning." Just my usual, run-of-the-mill death threats.

Mrs. Hinter frowns, obviously disappointed. The new girl casts her a look that could strip paint off the walls. This time, I can't hide my admiring smile. When the girl sees me watching her, she flushes that dark rose again.

"I should go," she says, just as Claire bustles back towards the counter. "I've got to meet with my new landlord."

"Well, that's nice!" Claire says. "Hope to see you back here soon." My mother is desperate for new people to move into town. She's sure it would help us.

The girl, clutching her coffee, makes a beeline for the door. I watch her leave, overcome by a strange urge to follow her. I know I've never met her before, but something about her feels familiar—something about that fighting spirit, that ethereal beauty. She doesn't remind me of Suze—how could she? She's as dark-complexioned as Suze was pale, and she's all curves where Suze was slenderness.

Without quite knowing what I'm doing, I walk to the door after her and step out onto the misty front porch. She's just reached the small silver car I saw earlier, but when I say her name, she looks back, her expression sad and lost. She waits for me to go to her, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers.

I stop walking further away from her than I'd like and try not to stare at her mouth when she takes a drag on her cigarette. I'm struggling to find the right way to say let me help you to a complete stranger. It's so presumptuous—she might not need help at all, and she certainly doesn't need help from me.

"You haven't been here before, have you?" I ask, finally.

She shakes her head.

"You look sort of familiar."

She takes another drag and exhales smoke into the mist, her lips parting. A little bit of relief shows in the corners of her eyes, the tilt of her neck. "I must just have one of those faces."

"No. You don't." She couldn't be any more striking than she is. "Why are you here?" I'm such an asshole. I try to backtrack: "I mean—what brings you to the island?"

She hesitates, and again I feel that pull towards her. "I had to leave where I was. And this island seemed nice."

I laugh in spite of myself, thinking of Joan Hinter and her cronies.

"You don't like it here?" she asks, her eyebrows knitting together.

"Me? No." How could I? But then I remind myself that once, I used to love it here, before everything went wrong. And she might love it here, too, once she finds whatever she's looking for. "What are you going to do now that you're here? Another café job?"

"I'd rather go back to working in a pub," she says. "I used to bartend."

At this, I feel a little relieved, or maybe selfishly pleased with myself. This is something I can actually help her with. "My friend Andy said something about his place looking for wait staff. It's called the Widow's Walk. He's the assistant manager. It's not bartending, but...."

"Oh." Her eyes widen. "Okay. Thank you." She hesitates. "Why is it called the Widow's Walk?"

It's impossible to describe Bill's eclectic decorating style. "The bar's owner has a strange sense of humor."

She smiles. It only makes her more enchanting. "I'm okay with strange."

"Then you'll like it here." I mean it as a joke, but it's awkward. Sometimes I think I forgot how to talk to women while I was in prison and never re-learned it. I could only manage to ask Jenny out because she practically handed me a script. This girl—Miranda—is nothing like Jenny. My girlfriend. "I'd better go," I say gruffly. Before she can respond, I walk away, back across the lot into the woods, into the fog.

*************

At long last, they finally meet. :-) What did you think? Was this what you expected?

Come back next Friday for another scene with Miranda! And as always, thank you so much for reading! Don't forget to vote or comment if you can. <3