The train pulled into the sleepy coastal village of Windemere just past noon. Mist clung to the hills beyond the station, and the scent of sea salt hung in the air. Eleanor stepped onto the platform, journal clutched tightly in her hand, Thomas beside her.
Windemere was quiet, almost untouched by time. Cobbled streets, faded shop signs, and curious glances greeted them as they made their way toward the address mentioned in Evelyn's journal.
The midwife's home now an apothecary stood at the edge of town. A kind-faced woman in her sixties greeted them. "You're looking for Martha?" she said. "That was my mother."
Inside, Eleanor explained everything. The woman Grace listened closely, then went to a small cabinet and returned with a tin box.
"My mother kept letters," she said. "Said some secrets were better preserved than forgotten."
Inside were notes written in a rushed but familiar hand.
E.A.
One letter detailed the arrangement: a new-born boy brought to Windemere under another name. Raised by a couple Emma and William Cole.
Eleanor's heart pounded. "Do you know what became of him?"
Grace nodded. "He still lives here. Name's Jonas Cole. Keeps to himself. Lives in a cottage by the cliffs."
The name struck Eleanor like thunder.
He was alive. And close.
They waited until morning. Eleanor barely slept.
At dawn, she and Thomas walked the cliff path. The sea roared below, and gulls cried overhead.
The cottage came into view weathered, quiet, smoke rising from the chimney.
Eleanor's steps slowed.
This was it.
She was about to knock when the door opened.
A man stood there. Mid-thirties. Dark hair. Familiar eyes.
Their eyes met and for a moment, the world fell away.
"…Can I help you?" he asked gently.
Eleanor swallowed.
"I think," she said softly, "I may be your sister."