The damp timbers creaked under her feet as she wondered if the fog would lift. She half-hoped it would not.
She was still small and timorous when her uncle had brought her here for the first time. “And you won’t be disappointed,” he had laughed, the lines about his eyes creasing in merriment.
It was only later that she understood his joke. It still made her smile.
Indeed, she loved Cape Disappointment. Even in the fog. Perhaps especially in the fog, in its unique magic. She’d read that almost a third of a year’s hours are spent in fog on the headland, masking rivers, hugging sand.
A gust of wind dripped cold into her collar and she laughed. Her uncle used to shake a branch onto her. This felt like a gift.
“You were right, Uncle,” she wiped a tear. “This place did not disappoint. Neither did you. Not once.”