The charcoal scratched against the paper, a harsh sound fighting the wind’s howl. Clara worked fast, knuckles smudged black, trying to pin the island’s angry mood to the page before it changed again.The world had gone gray. Not the dirty gray of Boston concrete, but a thousand shades of it, all sharp and indifferent. The sea was a bruised slate. The sky, wet ash. Even the light felt heavy, a damp weight on the peeling paint of the inn’s porch rail.

A gust whipped a strand of auburn hair across her mouth. She left it there, tasting the salt. The clean tang of the storm was the most real thing she’d felt in months. She pressed harder, scoring an angry line for the horizon. This was why she’d come. Not for the tourist crap on Main Street, but for the raw truth of a place.

The inn’s screen door creaked open and slapped shut. She didn’t look up.

“That’s the nor’easter. Not something you want to be sketching.”

The voice was Martha’s, the innkeeper. All gravel.

Clara glanced up, an exhilarated smile on her lips. The wind had whipped color into her cheeks. “Isn’t it amazing? You can’t find this kind of energy in the city.”

Martha just grunted, her eyes on the darkening sea. “Energy, sure. Last ferry’s about to blow its horn. If you’re going, go now.”

Clara hesitated. The sensible part of her, the part that paid rent on time, knew Martha was right. A storm on an island wasn’t art. It was a lockdown. But the other part, the restless part that had driven her here, saw the real thing finally arriving.

“I think I’ll stay,” Clara said, the words solidifying the decision. “I came for the real island. This feels pretty real.”

Martha’s expression sagged. A maternal resignation. She’d seen this brand of city foolishness before.

“Suit yourself,” she said. “Don’t blame me when the power goes and you’re eating cold crackers for dinner.”

As if summoned, a mournful blast echoed across the water. The ferry horn. Not a cheerful toot, but a final cry that seemed to sever the island from the world. She felt the vibration in the soles of her boots, a low thrum that went straight to her gut.

Trapped. The word landed with a satisfying weight. Good.

“You’re an islander for the night then,” Martha said, pulling her thin cardigan tighter. “Best stay put. That forest path gets slick, and the fog… it has a way of swallowing things.”

Martha went back inside, leaving Clara alone. The wind was a physical presence now, shoving at her. She finally stood, stretching the stiffness from her back. The ferry’s echo faded, leaving a strange silence beneath the noise.

With a defiant stroke, she captured the hard line of a wave. Done. She closed the sketchbook with a soft thump and gathered her things.

Her room at the Scrimshaw was a cage of comfort. A four-poster bed, a thick floral quilt, a gas fireplace hissing quietly. The air smelled of lavender and old wood. A perfect sanctuary against the gale now rattling the windowpanes.

And she hated it.

She paced. This wasn’t it. This was watching the battle from behind a thick wall of glass. A coward’s view. She hadn’t come all this way to hide in a B&B. Martha’s sensible voice echoed in her head. Stay put. It was the voice of the world she had left behind.

Her gaze fell on her gear, piled on an armchair. The cerulean jacket, a loud slash of color against the room’s muted chintz. Her sturdy, mud-caked boots.

The artist in her, the honest part, screamed no. The real art was out there. In feeling the wind try to tear you off your feet. She wasn’t going to hide. She was going to walk straight into it.

She moved with a sudden purpose. Pulled on a wool sweater, stepped into waterproof pants. The bright jacket felt like a dare as she zipped it to her chin. Lacing the boots was a final commitment. She yanked the pencil from her hair and shoved her sketchbook into a deep pocket.

She paused at the door, hand on the cool brass knob. The inn was quiet, just the slow tick of a clock in the hall, a measured heartbeat against the wild rhythm of the storm.

She opened the door, and the storm roared in. It shoved her back, a solid wall of noise and wet air. She took a breath that burned all the way down and stepped into the hall, pulling the door shut against the gale. She didn’t hesitate at the front. She leaned her shoulder into the wind and stepped out. The heavy door snatched from her hand and slammed shut behind her. The sound was a final punctuation, immediately eaten by the wind.

She was outside. She was in it.

The rain was a physical assault, stinging and cold. She pulled up her hood, a small figure against the overwhelming gray, and turned toward the dark, menacing tree line where the path to the forest began. It wasn’t just a path anymore. It was an invitation.