Chapter 1: The Ghost Next Door

The rhythmic sound of Cal's plane shaving curls of maple had become his meditation, each stroke deliberate and precise. Sawdust danced in the golden afternoon light streaming through the workshop windows, settling like snow on his worn work boots. Friday evening in Willow Creek meant most folks were heading to Murphy's Tavern or settling in for family dinners, but Cal Thorne preferred the solitude of his craft.

He paused, running his calloused fingers along the smooth surface of the dining table he'd been perfecting for the last three weeks. Mrs. Henderson would be thrilled—it was exactly what she'd envisioned for her daughter's new home. Another satisfied customer, another piece of his reputation as the town's master craftsman solidified.

The familiar weight of accomplishment settled in his chest. At twenty-nine, he'd built something real here. Thorne Woodcrafts wasn't just a business; it was his sanctuary, his identity, his proof that staying in Willow Creek had been the right choice. While his high school classmates had scattered to cities and corporate jobs, he'd carved out his place—literally—in the town that raised him.

A flash of movement through the window caught his eye, and Cal's contentment evaporated like morning mist.

Someone was unloading boxes from a bright yellow moving truck parked in the driveway of the house next door. The house that had stood empty for three years. The house where old Mrs. Kaminski used to tend her prize-winning roses before her children moved her to the assisted living facility in the next town over.

Cal's grip tightened on his plane. New neighbors meant noise, meant small talk over the fence, meant his carefully maintained privacy would be invaded by someone who'd want to chat about the weather or borrow a cup of sugar. He'd grown accustomed to the blessed silence next door, the way his workshop sounds never disturbed anyone, the way no one disturbed him.

Through the window, he watched a petite figure in a flowing floral dress direct the movers with animated gestures. Even from this distance, there was something familiar about the way she moved, the tilt of her head as she pointed toward the front porch. Something that made his pulse quicken with an emotion he couldn't name—or didn't want to.

Cal shook his head, forcing himself to look away. He had work to finish. Mrs. Henderson's table needed another coat of finish, and then there was the custom bookshelf order for the library. He didn't have time to gawk at new arrivals like some nosy townsperson with nothing better to do.

But as he lifted his brush to apply the wood stain, that flash of honey-blonde hair caught in the afternoon sun made his hand freeze mid-motion.

No. It couldn't be.

He set down his brush with deliberate care and moved to the window, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged bird. The woman had turned toward the moving truck, her profile now clearly visible, and Cal felt the bottom of his world drop away.

Lena Petrova.

The name hit him like a physical blow, ten years of carefully constructed walls crumbling in an instant. She looked older, of course—they both did—but there was no mistaken that sunshine smile she flashed at the movers, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when she was concentrating, the graceful movements that had once made his seventeen-year-old heart race.

She was back. After a decade of silence, of unanswered questions, of nights spent wondering if she ever thought about what she'd left behind, Lena Petrova had returned to Willow Creek. And she was moving in next door.

Cal's jaw clenched so hard it ached. Of all the houses in town, of all the places she could have chosen to restart whatever life had brought her back here, it had to be the one place where he couldn't avoid her. Where every morning he'd wake up to reminders of the girl who'd promised to love him forever and then vanished without so much as a goodbye.

He watched as she directed the movers to be careful with a box marked "FRAGILE - VASES" in cheerful purple marker. Everything about her still radiated that infuriating optimism, that bright energy that had once drawn him like a moth to flame. She looked successful, happy even, in her bohemian dress and artfully messy hair. Like the years had been kind to her.

Unlike the years he'd spent in this workshop, throwing himself into his craft to forget the taste of her goodbye kiss and the echo of promises that turned out to be lies.

A laugh drifted across the yards—her laugh, unchanged and achingly familiar. The sound pierced through him, carrying with it a thousand memories he'd buried beneath sawdust and solitude. Summer evenings on her parents' porch. Her fingers tracing the woodworking patterns he'd shown her. The way she'd said his name like it was something precious.

The way she'd looked at him the night before she left for college, tears in her brown eyes as she promised they'd make it work, that distance couldn't change what they had.

And then nothing. No calls, no letters, no explanation. Just silence that stretched from weeks into months into years, until he'd finally accepted that Lena Petrova had decided her future didn't include a small-town carpenter who'd never wanted anything more than to build beautiful things with his hands.

Cal's fingers found the small scar above his eyebrow, a nervous habit he'd developed in the months after she left. The mark was from a childhood accident—he'd been ten, showing off for eight-year-old Lena by climbing too high in the old oak tree behind her house. She'd been the one to kiss it better, to hold his hand while his mother cleaned the cut. Even then, she'd been his light, his constant.

Until she wasn't.

Through the window, he saw her pause in directing the movers and look directly at his workshop. For a heart-stopping moment, their eyes met across the years and the yards, and he saw her smile falter. Saw recognition dawn on her face, followed by something that looked almost like fear.

Good. She should be afraid. She'd shattered him once, left him picking up pieces he'd never quite managed to fit back together properly. If she thought she could waltz back into his life with that same radiant smile and pick up where they'd left off, she was about to learn just how much a decade of silence could change a man.

Cal stepped back from the window, his heart pounding with a mixture of rage and something else he refused to name. He grabbed his coat from the hook by the door, suddenly desperate to be anywhere but here, anywhere he wouldn't have to see her unpacking her new life in the shadow of his carefully constructed solitude.

Murphy's Tavern was calling. A few beers, some mindless conversation with the regulars, anything to wash away the taste of old memories and new complications. He'd deal with this tomorrow, when the shock had worn off and he could think clearly about what it meant to have Lena Petrova as his next-door neighbor.

As he locked up his workshop, Cal caught one last glimpse of her through the window. She was standing on the front porch now, hands on her hips as she surveyed her new domain, looking every bit the confident woman who'd made her choice and lived with it. The setting sun caught her hair like spun gold, and for just a moment, he was seventeen again, completely bewitched by the girl who'd owned his heart.

Then reality crashed back in, cold and unforgiving. That girl was gone, if she'd ever really existed at all. In her place stood a woman who'd proven that promises meant nothing, that love was just a word people used until something better came along.

Cal climbed into his truck, gravel crunching under his tires as he backed out of his driveway. In his rearview mirror, he saw Lena watching him leave, one hand raised in what might have been a tentative wave.

He didn't wave back.

The ghost next door would have to wait. Tonight, he needed distance, needed time to rebuild the walls she'd already started to crack with nothing more than her presence. Tomorrow, he'd figure out how to live next to the woman who'd taught him that sometimes, loving someone meant learning to hate them just a little bit too.

But as he drove toward town, Cal couldn't shake the feeling that his carefully ordered world had just been turned upside down, and all the locks and walls and years of silence in the world wouldn't be enough to keep the past from bleeding into his present.

Lena Petrova was back, and everything was about to change.