Rain whispered against the windows, soft and constant, like the gentle tapping of secrets. Penelope sat curled in her reading chair, a mug of chamomile tea cradled in her hands. The events of the past few weeks still clung to her skin like mist—Scott's confession, Marc's sudden withdrawal, Veronica's fragile romance, and the sharp truth that no matter how far she ran from the past, it wore sunglasses and followed closely behind.
A knock came at the door.
Not the hesitant tap of a stranger, but the firm, familiar rhythm of someone who knew her well.
Penelope rose, heart tightening. She wasn't expecting anyone.
When she opened the door, a gust of wind swept rain into the hallway. Standing beneath the porch light was a man in his mid-forties. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Salt-and-pepper beard. He wore a tailored overcoat and held a suitcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other. His steel-gray eyes, sharp and observant, softened the moment he saw her.
"Uncle Adrian?" Penelope blinked. "You're early. You said you'd come next weekend."
"I wrapped up my briefing in the city sooner than expected," he said with a tired smile. "And... I missed you, kid."
Penelope's arms flew around him before her thoughts could catch up. His presence—calm, solid—was like the memory of a lullaby hummed on sleepless nights. He had been there through so much. After her parents died, he'd made sure she was never alone. And when he had to travel, he sent letters. Stories. Money. Love.
"Come in before you catch your death," she said, ushering him inside. "You're soaked."
He stepped in, setting his suitcase gently on the floor. The moment he was inside, the atmosphere shifted.
Something unseen walked in with him.
It was the way his eyes lingered on the photos on the wall, the way he paused near her bookshelf as if counting the titles, the way he smiled—warmly, yes—but with a touch too much calculation. Penelope's heart didn't know why it skipped a beat, but it did.
---
Later that evening…
Marc stood outside the café on Main Street, fingers jammed into the pockets of his hoodie. The last light of the day had long gone, replaced by puddles reflecting neon. He didn't notice the rain soaking through his shoulders.
He was watching someone through the window.
Scott Rivers. Laughing. Leaning just a little too close to Veronica, who playfully rolled her eyes but didn't move away.
Marc's jaw clenched.
There was a time he thought Veronica was just Penelope's quirky best friend. But in the last few weeks, he'd seen her strength. Her sarcasm. Her refusal to bend, even when it hurt.
He liked her. He liked her more than he should have. But Scott had seen her first.
A low voice broke his focus.
"You're not very subtle, Marc."
Marc turned to find Uncle Adrian standing beside him, a cigarette lit between two fingers.
"What are you doing here?" Marc asked, startled.
Adrian took a slow drag. "Looking out for my niece. And it seems you're doing the same."
Marc frowned. "You know me?"
"I know of you," Adrian said. "The mysterious Marc who shows up out of nowhere, wins hearts, then disappears behind some dark curtain."
Marc stepped back, suddenly defensive. "You think I'm a threat?"
"I think you're hiding something," Adrian said, exhaling smoke. "But then again… so am I."
Marc stared at him. The man's eyes glinted like sharpened knives. Then, Adrian tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel.
"Take care of yourself, Marc. And watch the ones closest to you. Sometimes, the people you trust the most are the ones holding the dagger."
And with that cryptic line, he walked into the rain, vanishing like a shadow swallowed by the night.
---
The Next Day
Penelope's house buzzed with warmth and the aroma of eggs and rosemary potatoes. Uncle Adrian moved around the kitchen like he belonged there. In many ways, he did.
"So," he said, setting a plate in front of her, "this town hasn't changed much. Still the same bookstore, same streets, same coffee shop you used to sneak into as a teen."
Penelope smiled. "I didn't sneak. I... strategically visited."
Adrian laughed. Then, his face turned serious.
"I heard about your recent... entanglements. With the Thorne boys."
Penelope nearly choked on her tea. "That was fast."
"I've got ears everywhere, Pen. And more importantly—I've seen how men like that move. One with a silver tongue. The other, a smirk that hides war wounds."
"You've read them wrong," she said softly. "They're not perfect. But they're not villains."
"Maybe. Or maybe you're just too close to see clearly."
The doorbell rang.
Penelope blinked. "Are you expecting someone?"
"No."
She rose and opened the door.
Scott stood there.
Hair windswept, cheeks flushed from the cold. In his hands—an envelope and a white tulip.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
Penelope glanced at Adrian, who watched silently from the kitchen.
"Yes," she said. "Let's go outside."
---
Outside
They walked along the leaf-littered path behind her house.
Scott was quiet for a while.
Then he handed her the envelope.
"It's for Veronica," he said. "I wrote her a letter. I couldn't say everything I needed to last night. You know how bad I am with words when it's important."
Penelope smiled gently. "You're better than you think."
"I'm scared I'll mess it up," he said. "She's... different from anyone I've ever met. She's been through things. And for the first time, I want to stay. To mean something."
Penelope held his gaze.
"You already do," she said. "Just don't run."
He nodded.
"And Pen?" he said softly, "I know you think love always finds you last. But sometimes... the best love is the one that watches quietly and waits for the storm to pass."
She froze.
There was something in his eyes.
But before either of them could speak again, the sound of a phone ringing from inside pulled her back.
---
Later That Night
Veronica read Scott's letter in silence.
Tears welled in her eyes by the end. Not because it was perfect—but because it was honest.
"I'm not good at big speeches," it read. "But I'm good at showing up. And I want to show up for you, every day, even when it's hard. Especially then."
She folded it carefully, then turned to her mirror.
For the first time in years, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't always be second-best.
---
Meanwhile... in the dark
Uncle Adrian sat alone in his guest room. The suitcase he'd brought was open. Inside was no clothing—only a laptop, a manila folder with the Blackwood family crest, and photographs. One of them showed a man: silver-haired, strikingly similar to Marc Thorne.
He clicked open a file.
PROJECT HEMLOCK
Subject: Marc Thorne
Classification: High-risk
Status: Alive and Unstable
Observation Required
Adrian exhaled and whispered to himself,
"I'm sorry, Penelope. But you have no idea who you've let into your heart."