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Outside, the water gently lapped at the stone base. Evan made tea using the kettle still on the stove. He stood on the porch, watching birds glide over the surface. He suddenly understood why Walt had stayed. It wasn’t isolation. It was peace. The kind you rarely find on land surrounded by noise and roads and constant motion.
In the coming days, Evan returned often. He brought small supplies — food, tools, and books of his own. He didn’t move in, but it became a retreat. A place to breathe. Eventually, he cleaned out the storage room and found photo albums. Walt had been an amateur photographer. Hundreds of images, all taken from the island.
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