Ten summers ago June left the island, and Callum, without a goodbye. The ferry back only runs one way this late in the season.
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The ferry horn sounded once as June came over the dune, and for a dizzy second she was seventeen again — salt on her lips, sand in her shoes, the whole summer still unbroken ahead of her.
The general store still smelled of rope and peaches. The bell over the door still stuck.
Ten years compressed themselves into four seconds of silence.
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