The wind howled softly around the cliffs, but Rachel’s grip on your hand was steady. She led you up the winding path without a word, her flashlight dancing over the rocks. The lighthouse stood tall, silent, watching over Arcadia Bay like a quiet witness.

—“This place was only mine. Until now.”

She knelt down and brushed away the leaves and gravel, revealing a weathered tin box. Inside: a patchwork of her life—concert tickets from cities she never made it to, torn-up letters she never sent, dried flowers pressed flat by time.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled out something new: a folded envelope with your name on it.

—“I was always collecting pieces of myself,” she said, voice low. “Trying to figure out who I was through the things I lost or let go of.”

She handed you the letter, eyes soft and glassy.

—“Everything I was, everything I hid, everything I felt... it's yours now.”