The Warmest Winter✓

EPILOGUE

Clovelly village.
North Devon, England.

The cobble street streams into a charming ancient view, its cozy cottages lying onto a steep and strong foundation on the cliff near the sea. The sky is so blue, the sun faintly bright—it nearly defies nature given that it's probably gray in other parts around this time of the year.

It's winter again. It's Christmas too.

He smiles fondly as he sits straight, recalling one of the books he'd read back in time, talking about the enchantment of this small fishing village and Christmas issues all over the world. Was it Charles Dickens? He can't tell precisely no matter how hard he tries to put his memory into use.

A Message from the Sea. This is probably the title of the book. Perhaps this much he still remembers. Or was it Susan Coolidge in the Katy series? He sighs deeply, ruefully, so many memories of the past trying to lurch back every single day, little by little.

And that question returns in his head as he focuses on the waves from afar.

What if someone misses him somewhere beyond the sea? Is it okay to continue living like this? Hardly recalling who he was before arriving here? Again, his heart aches. He feels the nameless pain, too deep and excruciating. It's torturous, too.

Is it longing? But how can he yearn for someone he doesn't even remember? There's just a reminder, somewhere deep inside his bruised heart, that he has a place to be—somewhere far away from here—yet he can't tell where exactly that place is.

The Celtic Sea seems enraged today. His eyes wander toward the pebble beach, so many things unsorted in his head. There's a dark cloud blocking his mind, like a thick fog between his conscious and subconscious. It is a void, he could feel it, and he needs to know.

A donkey sleigh with a good supply of mackerel and herrings distracts his attention, and from here the sound of the pier washed by the waves becomes a song in his ears, as it mingles with the voices of fishermen boasting about their good catches today.

A deep sigh escapes his lips, yet again. And once again his eyes wander towards the flower-strewn house across the array, the sight so cool and relaxing, yet he's never been relaxed for the past twelve months. Disquieted and restless has been him.

"Oh God." He sucks in a deep breath, rubbing his full bearded face tiredly.

It's probably time to gather more firewood to sustain this cold winter that's getting too intense. He hates winter. It makes him lonelier. Has it been like this since way back? The memory gap is doing the trick, perhaps. Feel, don't see. He'd always murmur inside.

"Mr. Boatman!" A stout young voice accompanies little feet barreling toward the porch on which he'd been seated for over half an hour now.

He is startled, but a smile stretches across his rugged face that was once very handsome and agreeable. Maybe a haircut and facial treatment could restore his skin to its former glory, even though the lines of age are something any man should be proud of.

"Stephanie," he mutters, and the little girl grins widely.

She looks happy. Her white cotton dress radiates her pale skin, and the blonde curls complete the angel in her when the afternoon light bathes her face.

Oh, and that pink ribbon tying her hair into a fluffy tail. Will she ever take it off? It was his gift to her on her birthday over a fortnight ago.

"Okay, to what do I owe this interesting visit, Stephanie?" he asks her with a smile.

"Guess what I found?" Her grin widens as she hides something in the back. Mr. Boatman scowls impishly. "Come on!" she insists, drumming her feet on the rough surface of the floor, making a tantrum. "You have to guess, Mr. Boatman!"