3. Back to Harbors End
Back to Harbor's End
Rowan
T he 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, I mean—” 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—”
“You staying long?” she asked, ignoring her son's embarrassment. “Because if you need anything—anything at all—you just come by Torrino's Market. We're on Maple Street, right next to the post office.”
“I appreciate it, but?—”
“No buts. That's what neighbors do.” She patted my arm firmly. “Your mother used to shop with us all the time. Always said you had the voice of an angel.”
The compliment hit harder than it should have, mostly because I could hear my mother saying exactly that in Rosa's matter-of-fact tone. “She was biased.”
“Mothers usually are. Doesn't make them wrong.” Rosa was already digging through her purse, pulling out a slightly crumpled business card. “Here's my number. You call if you need anything. I mean it.”
I pocketed the card, genuinely touched despite my desire to remain invisible. “Thank you, Mrs. Torrino.”
“Rosa. And don't be a stranger, okay? This town's got enough of those.”
As they walked away, I heard Benny asking his mother if she thought I looked too thin, and her response that everyone looked too thin when they were carrying too much sorrow.
The main street looked smaller than I remembered, but not as desolate as I'd expected.’ Lillian’s Diner was busy with the late lunch crowd, and I could see Lillian herself through the window, still wearing the same stained apron she'd had when I was in high school.
She caught sight of me through the glass and raised her hand in a wave that was more curious than welcoming.
“Well, well,” said a voice from behind me. “Look what the tide dragged in.”
I turned to find Jasper Crowley leaning against a lamppost, cigarette dangling from his lips. He was older now, softer around the middle, but he still had the same smirk that had made him the most insufferable kid in our graduating class.
“Jasper,” I said, not bothering to hide my lack of enthusiasm.
“Heard you were making it big in the city. Record deals, all that shit.” His tone suggested he'd heard no such thing. “How's that working out for you?”
“Can't complain.”
“Course not. Too polite.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, studying me like I was a particularly interesting bug. “Funny thing, though. My cousin lives in Brooklyn, says she's never heard of you. Goes to all the indie shows and everything. ”
“Brooklyn's a big place.”
“Sure is.” Jasper's grin widened. “So what brings you back to our little slice of paradise? Finally ready to play the hometown hero?”
“Just visiting.”
“For how long?”
“Haven't decided.”
The conversation was attracting attention. I could see people slowing their pace as they walked past, pretending to check their phones while obviously eavesdropping. A woman I didn't recognize—blonde, probably in her thirties—had stopped pretending to window-shop and was openly staring.
“You know,” Jasper continued, oblivious to or enjoying the growing audience, “some folks might say it's about time you came back. Show a little respect for your mother's memory instead of running off to the city like you were too good for the rest of us.”
Heat flashed through my chest, but before I could respond, a new voice cut through the tension.
“Jasper Crowley, did your mother drop you on your head more times than usual as a baby, or are you naturally this stupid?”
I turned to see a woman in her forties approaching, her dark hair streaked with silver and her expression suggesting she was ready to commit violence. She was wearing scrubs and comfortable shoes, and she moved with the no-nonsense confidence of someone used to dealing with difficult people.
“Ah, Christ,” Jasper muttered, suddenly looking less sure of himself. “Hey, Willa.”
“Don't 'Hey, Willa' me, you absolute waste of oxygen.” Willa Chen—I could see her name embroidered on her scrubs—positioned herself between Jasper and me like a human shield.
“This boy just lost his mother two years ago, and the first thing you do is give him grief about when he came home? What's wrong with you?”
“I was just?—”
“You were just being an asshole, like usual. Why don't you find something useful to do? Maybe go help your wife with those three kids you seem to forget you have every time there's a beer and a bar stool available.”
Jasper's face went red. He flicked his cigarette into the street and walked away without another word, muttering something under his breath that was probably unflattering.
“Sorry about that,” Willa said, turning to me with a much warmer expression. “Jasper's always been a dick, but losing his job at the plant made him worse. I'm Willa Chen, by the way. I work at the medical center.”
“Rowan Hale.”
“I know who you are. Your mother talked about you all the time when she came in for her checkups.” Her smile faltered slightly. “She was proud of you, you know. Really proud.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut, mostly because they sounded true. “Thank you.”
“You settling in okay? I know Harbor's End can feel a little... intense when you've been away.”
“It's an adjustment.”
“I bet.” She glanced around at the small crowd that had gathered, then back at me. “Tell you what—if you need a friendly face, I'm usually at Lillian's Diner around seven for coffee. Best pie in town, and Lillian knows how to mind her own business.”
“I might take you up on that.”
“Good. And don't let idiots like Jasper get to you. Half this town's just jealous they never had the guts to leave, and the other half wishes they had somewhere to come back to.” She squeezed my shoulder gently. “Welcome home, Rowan. ”
As she walked away, I noticed the blonde woman from earlier approaching.
“Excuse me,” she said, her accent confirming my suspicion that she was from somewhere other than Maine. “I'm sorry to bother you, but are you really Rowan Hale? The musician?”
“Depends who's asking.”
“I'm Chelsea Morrison—I write for the Harbor's End Gazette. Well, I'm freelance, but I cover local interest stories.” She was already digging in her purse for what I assumed was a recorder or notepad. “I'd love to do a piece about you coming home. Local boy makes good, returns to his roots?—”