The ironwoods leaned back from the shore, crowns beaten flat by wind. Salt in the air, thick enough you could taste it before you saw the water. Surf hammering the rocks below—same rhythm it always had.

The house was still standing.

That was something. Same dark boards, same stones piled around the chimney base. Somebody had patched the roof since they left. Messy work, but it held.

They dropped their pack outside the door and left it there. They found themselves looking at it for a moment, hand still on the strap.

Finally, they let go.

Inside, the fire was going. Nets spread across the table, stones holding them flat. Their sister worked over them, sleeves pushed up, lamp set so the light wouldn't reach the windows.

She looked up.

"You're back."

Her eyes went to the door, then back. Checking, the way she always did. She took in their stance—the way they were holding weight off one leg, the pack still outside.

"You eaten?"

"Not hungry yet."

"There's stew." She went back to the nets.

They sat down heavily on the bench and started unlacing their boots. The ache in their legs was finally catching up, the kind that comes from walking too long on ground that doesn't want you. Better to let it finish now than pretend it wasn't there.

Tomorrow, there’d be nets to fix properly. Posts to reset where the trees had pushed in. Shingles to deal with before the next blow came through. Close work. Shore work. Staying work.

The wind hit the shutters. The sea stayed where it was. The house held.

They leaned back against the wall and shut their eyes, letting things get quiet enough to trust.

Their sister knotted off the last net and set it aside. The room stayed warm.