On the last evening, we sat on the stone wall above the harbor and watched the sun go down.
This was not something we had planned. We had returned from the lighthouse walk in the late afternoon, and after the guesthouse owner's dinner — a meal she had prepared with the quiet attentiveness of someone who understood this was the last one — we had gone out again without discussion, walking the now-familiar harbor path in the early dark and arriving, without having named it as a destination, at the low stone wall at the south end of the harbor where the fishing boats were moored for the night.
