“Because my wife told me before she died,” he said softly, “‘Don’t be alone, Tom. Let the sea find her.’”

Eleanor felt the tears come, not from sorrow, but from a strange, warming joy. She thought of her own children, grown now, scattered across England, urging her to “live a little.”

Eleanor laughed, her cheeks flushing like a girl’s. She almost threw it away. But that Sunday, she found herself on the train to St. Ives.

“You came,” said a voice behind her.

He didn’t shake it. He held it. “Hello, Eleanor.”

She spun. There he was—Thomas. Tall, silver-haired, with kind eyes crinkled at the edges. The blue scarf was tied around his wrist. “I’ve thrown a hundred bottles,” he admitted, smiling nervously. “You’re the first to answer.”