MY GRANDMOTHER GAVE ME $500 FOR CHRISTMAS. THEN SHE LOOKED AT MY MOTHER AND SAID FIVE WORDS THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING.

The salty tang of the Atlantic Ocean bit into the autumn air as Julian’s truck crossed the bridge into Mount Desert Island.

The road wound through dense stands of spruce and granite cliffs, the ocean crashing in white spray against the rocks below. It was a rugged, beautiful landscape—wilder than the Finger Lakes, but carrying that same deep reverence for water and wood.

Frank had stayed behind in Syracuse to look after Grandma Ruth and oversee the security installation at the shop. It was just Julian and me in the truck, the cab filled with a nervous, electric silence.

We turned down a narrow dirt lane lined with lobster traps and stacks of weathered cedar planks. At the end of the point sat a low, gray-shingled boat barn. Painted on a rustic sign hanging above the double doors were the words: *SOUTH BAY CRAFTSMEN — WOODEN BOATS & RIGGING.*

Julian pulled the truck to a stop beside the dock. His hands trembled as he turned off the ignition.

"Nola," he said quietly, staring out through the windshield at the harbor. "What if she hates us? What if she thinks I abandoned her?"

"She won't," I said, squeezing his calloused hand. "She has your blood, Julian. And if she’s anything like us, she’s spent her whole life wondering why she felt like a piece of her soul was missing."

We stepped out into the crisp sea breeze. The sound of a hand plane scraping across mahogany drifted from inside the open bay doors.

We walked side by side toward the workshop entrance. Inside, the shop looked almost identical to Julian’s in Syracuse—chisels hanging in neat rows, the sweet scent of spar varnish, shavings curling across the floorboards.

Working on the upturned hull of a twenty-foot skiff was a woman dressed in flannel work shirts, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, dark hair tied back in a messy knot with a shop pencil tucked behind her ear.

She stopped planing the wood, sensing our presence.

She turned around, wiping sawdust from her forehead with the back of her hand.

Julian stopped dead in his tracks. A choked gasp escaped his throat.

She didn't just look like me. It was like looking into a living mirror. She had my jaw, Julian’s dark green eyes, and the unmistakable, determined Keating stance. Around her neck, dangling against her work shirt, was an antique silver key on a chain—the exact twin to the brass key Ruth had given me.

The woman looked from Julian’s face to mine. The hand plane slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against the wooden hull.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice shaking with an eerie familiarity.