The mornings in Maine were always colder in October, but you never minded — not with Ben beside you.

He was already up, sitting on the front porch of the small coastal house you’d moved into after leaving ’Salem’s Lot behind. The steam from his coffee curled into the gray air, and the first golden strands of light filtered through the pines.

You walked out wrapped in a sweater, barefoot, and leaned against the doorframe. Ben turned, his face softening the moment he saw you — the kind of look that made you forget he’d once walked through hell and back.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Didn’t want to wake you. The dreams were quiet last night.”

You stepped down beside him, sitting close. “That’s the third night in a row.”

Ben smiled faintly. “You’re a better cure than anything else I’ve found.”

There was a time he wouldn’t have said that — wouldn’t have dared speak aloud the things he feared, the weight he carried from the Lot: Susan, the Marsten House, the darkness that had crept in like a sickness and tried to root itself in his soul.

But being with you… it changed things.

He reached for your hand, his fingers still rough from gripping pens and pages, always writing, always trying to find a way to process it all. He’d gone from haunted to healing — not overnight, but slowly, one shared moment at a time.

“You know,” he said, looking out at the water, “I used to think I didn’t deserve peace. Not after what happened.”

You looked at him carefully, knowing not to interrupt. Ben didn’t say things like this often — he didn’t speak for the sake of hearing his own voice. When he opened up, it mattered.

“But you,” he continued, glancing at you, “you made me believe I could still live a life that wasn’t wrapped in shadows.”

You leaned into his side, resting your head on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to outrun the past, Ben. You just have to stop letting it tell you who you are.”

He kissed your hair gently, quiet for a long moment. The ocean hummed in the distance.

“I still see her sometimes. Susan,” he admitted. “Not like before. Just… flashes. Not guilt. More like… memory.”

You nodded. “She was part of your story. But you’re allowed to write new chapters.”

Ben turned to look at you then, eyes warmer than they’d been in years. “I already am.”

The morning sun crept a little higher, and in that small Maine town, the two of you sat in silence — not because there was nothing to say, but because finally, finally, peace had found its place.

And it looked a lot like love.