Page 9 of Stolen Harmony
We finished the meal in comfortable silence. Outside, the wind was picking up, carrying the salt smell of the ocean and the distant sound of waves against the breakwater. This close to the water, you could hear the sea’s moods, feel its restlessness in your bones.
When I finally left, my father walked me to the door, the way he had when I was a kid staying out too late.
“Don’t wait too long, son,” he said, gripping my shoulder. “Life’s too short for unfinished business.”
I tried to deflect, as I always did. “Life’s also too short for your stew, but we keep suffering through that.”
He chuckled, giving my shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “You’ll miss it when I’m gone.”
“Don’t threaten me like that,” I said, but the words came out softer, heavier, closer to the truth than I wanted.
Chapter 3
Back to Harbor's End
Rowan
The train window reflected my own hollow face back at me, ghost-pale against the blur of countryside rolling past.
I'd pulled my hood up and shoved earbuds in my ears, but the music wasn't helping. Every song sounded like static, like white noise that couldn't drown out the voice in my head asking what the fuck I thought I was doing. The city had faded away an hour ago, all glass and concrete dissolving into farmland and forest, but I could still feel New York clinging to my skin like smoke.
The coastline appeared like a memory I'd been trying to forget. Waves crashed against black rocks, throwing spray high enough to catch the dying light. The water looked restless, the way it always did when a storm was building pressure somewhere beyond the horizon. I pressed my palm against the cold glass and felt something twist in my chest.
Two years. Two fucking years since I'd seen this view, since I'd breathed air that tasted like salt and seaweed instead of exhaust and broken dreams. The last time I'd been on this train,I'd been running away from a cemetery and a stranger in a good suit who'd stood ten feet away like he belonged there more than I did.
My guitar case leaned against my knee, battered leather worn smooth from years of dragging it through subway stations and dive bars. I wasn't even sure why I'd brought it. Habit, maybe, or hope, or just because it was the only thing I owned that still felt real.
The train began to slow, brakes squealing against metal. Harbor's End station came into view—same faded brick platform, same rusted benches where teenagers used to sit and plan their escapes. I used to be one of those kids, counting down the days until I could catch this same train in the opposite direction.
Now here I was, coming back like a wounded animal looking for a place to lick its wounds.
The platform was busier than I'd expected. A small crowd had gathered near the station entrance, and it took me a moment to realize they were waiting for someone. A woman in her fifties held a “Welcome Home Danny!” sign, bouncing on her toes with nervous energy. Behind her, a teenage girl rolled her eyes while texting furiously.
“Excuse me,” said a voice behind me as I struggled with my guitar case. “You need help with that?”
I turned to find a man about my age with kind eyes and work-worn hands, wearing a Harbor's End Fire Department t-shirt. He had the easy confidence of someone who'd never left town and wasn't planning to.
“I'm good,” I said, hoisting the case higher on my shoulder.
“You sure? I'm Benny Torrino,” he said, extending his hand. “Don't think I know you.”
“Rowan,” I said reluctantly, shaking his hand.
His eyebrows shot up. “Rowan Hale? Holy shit—sorry, Imean—” He grinned sheepishly. “My mom always said you were gonna be famous. She's gonna flip when I tell her you're back.”
Before I could respond, he was waving over a woman who was loading groceries into a battered pickup truck. “Ma! Ma, come here! You're not gonna believe who this is!”
“Benjamin Torrino, stop shouting like a caveman,” the woman called back, but she was already walking over, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She was small and round with graying hair and a no-nonsense expression that suggested she'd raised five sons and lived to tell about it.
“This is Rowan Hale, Ma. Elaine's boy. The musician.”
Her face softened immediately. “Oh honey,” she said, and before I could step back, she had me wrapped in a hug that smelled like vanilla and clean laundry. “I'm so sorry about your mother. She was such a lovely woman.”
“Thank you,” I managed, patting her back awkwardly.
“Rosa Torrino,” she said, finally releasing me. “This is my youngest, Benny. He's the one who never learned proper manners.”
“Ma—”
