Chapter 5 Arrival at Poseidon

Amelia Noah POV

The reception desk smells like jasmine and money.

"Welcome to the Poseidon Resort, Ms. Noah." The concierge's English carries no trace of accent, her smile calibrated to make me feel both valued and insignificant. "We have you in a junior suite with caldera views. You'll find it quite special."

Quite special. The phrase wealthy people use when they mean obscenely expensive.

She hands me a key card wrapped in cream cardstock, embossed with gold lettering. Room 247. The numbers feel like a verdict—this is real, I'm actually here, there's no turning back now.

A porter materializes at my elbow. "May I show you to your suite?"

I follow him through corridors lined with photographs of sunsets, each one attempting to capture what waits outside. We pass other guests—a couple in their sixties holding hands, a family with a bored teenager, two women laughing over something on a phone. Everyone looks like they belong here. Like they vacation at clifftop resorts as a matter of course, not as a four-thousand-dollar emotional Band-Aid.

The elevator climbs silently. My ears pop.

"The Poseidon has three infinity pools," the porter says, his English textbook-perfect. "The main pool overlooks the caldera, the adults-only pool is on the north terrace, and the spa pool is accessed through the wellness center on level two."

Three pools. I packed one swimsuit.

"Breakfast is served from seven to eleven in the main dining room, or you can request in-room service. Dinner requires reservations, which can be made through the concierge." He glances at me. "Would you like me to arrange something for this evening?"

This evening. Six hours from now, I'll sit alone at a restaurant table while couples share wine and conversation. The thought should bother me more than it does.

"Not tonight," I say. "Maybe tomorrow."

The elevator opens onto the second floor, and suddenly the photographs in the lobby make sense. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the entire corridor, each one framing the caldera like a living painting. The water shifts from deep blue to turquoise depending on the depth, and the afternoon sun turns the volcanic cliffs across the bay into layers of rust and amber.

"Here we are." The porter stops at a door near the end of the hall, sliding my key card through the reader. "Suite 247."

The door swings open, and I forget how to breathe properly.

The suite isn't large, but it doesn't need to be. Everything serves the view—the king bed positioned to face the terrace, the minimal furniture in pale wood and white linen, the sliding glass doors that open the entire wall to the sky. My private terrace holds two lounge chairs, a small table, and an infinity edge that seems to spill directly into the caldera below.

"The minibar is complimentary," the porter says, setting my suitcase on a luggage rack. "As is the wine selection. If you need anything, dial zero for the concierge."

I tip him with euros that still feel like Monopoly money, and then I'm alone.

Actually, genuinely alone.

I kick off my shoes and walk barefoot across cool tile to the terrace. The wind hits me immediately—warm and salt-scented, carrying voices from distant pools and the faint thrum of a boat crossing the caldera. Below, the resort cascades down the cliff face in levels of white architecture and blue-domed chapels. Above, the sky stretches cloudless and infinite.

This is mine. For seven days, this view, this peace, this silence belongs to me and no one else.

I sink into one of the lounge chairs and pull out my phone, then immediately put it away. No. Not yet. I'm not ready to photograph this, to caption it, to share it with people who will double-tap and scroll past. This moment gets to be unfiltered.

The unpacking ritual grounds me. I hang dresses in the closet, line up shoes beneath them, arrange toiletries in the marble bathroom with its rainfall shower and soaking tub. My Greek guidebooks stack neatly on the nightstand beside my journal. The blue scarf Kate gave me for good luck drapes across the spare pillow.

Everything in its place. Everything under control.

The minibar yields a bottle of Assyrtiko—the volcanic wine I read about on the ferry—already chilled. I pour a glass and return to the terrace, where the sun has begun its descent toward the horizon.

Sunset in Santorini. One of the most beautiful in the world, according to my guidebook. Tourists flock to Oia to watch it, crowding the castle ruins and narrow streets for the perfect photograph.

I have a private showing from my terrace, wine in hand, no one else's schedule to consider.

The sky shifts through shades I don't have names for—peach and coral and something between gold and pink. The caldera water reflects it all, turning the entire basin into liquid light. Across the bay, the cliffs darken to silhouettes as the sun drops lower.

My phone buzzes. Kate: Made it to the resort okay?

Yes. It's beautiful here. I type back, then add: I think I made the right choice.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally: Proud of you, sis. Enjoy every minute.

I set the phone aside and watch the sun touch the horizon. Other guests have gathered on their terraces too, glasses raised, cameras aimed. But we're all separated by architecture and distance, experiencing the same moment in private solitude.

The light show lasts maybe ten minutes, but it feels both infinite and instantaneous. When the sun finally slips below the water's edge, a few scattered guests applaud. I don't. I just sit with the wine warming in my hand and the wind cooling my face and the complete absence of anyone expecting anything from me.

This is what peace feels like. Not the forced calm of meditation apps or the temporary relief of finishing a project. Real peace. The kind that comes from being exactly where you are, wanting nothing more than this moment.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since the ferry's mediocre sandwich. Room service seems too decadent for a first night, too much like hiding. Tomorrow I'll explore the resort, find the pools, maybe venture into Fira for Sophia's sister's taverna.

Tonight, I need something simpler.

The concierge answers on the first ring. "Yes, Ms. Noah?"

"Is there anywhere nearby I could walk to for dinner? Something casual?"

A pause, the sound of typing. "There's a small taverna about ten minutes down the main road. Very local, excellent food. I can call ahead if you'd like?"

"No, that's okay. I'll just walk."

"The path is well-lit, but please be careful on the steps. They can be uneven."

I change into a sundress and sandals, grab my room key and some euros, and head back through the silent corridor. The resort has transformed in the hour since I arrived—lights glowing from pools and pathways, soft music drifting from the main bar, guests dressed for dinner moving through the lobby in couples and groups.

I am the only person walking alone.

The observation lands differently than it did on the ferry. Not like failure, just fact. I'm alone because I chose this, because I bought a plane ticket and booked a suite and decided that proving I could be happy by myself mattered more than avoiding awkward solo dinners.

The taverna sits exactly where the concierge promised, built into the cliff face with a terrace overlooking the darkening caldera. A handful of tables hold tourists and what look like locals, everyone eating grilled octopus and drinking wine while fairy lights sway in the evening breeze.

"One?" the hostess asks in English, eyeing my lack of companion.

"Just me," I confirm.

She seats me at a small table near the edge, close enough to hear conversations but separate enough to feel private. The menu is mostly Greek with English translations, and I order based on descriptions rather than recognition—moussaka, Greek salad, more of the Assyrtiko.

The food arrives quickly, abundant and delicious. I eat slowly, tasting volcanic tomatoes and local cheese and lamb that falls apart under my fork. Around me, couples lean close over their meals and families argue about tomorrow's plans. At the next table, an elderly man eats alone too, a book propped against his wine bottle.

We're not the only solo travelers in the world. Just the only ones visible.

By the time I finish, the sky has gone full dark, pricked with stars I never see in Manhattan. The walk back to the resort follows the cliff edge, and I can hear the Aegean far below, waves meeting rock in an endless conversation.

My suite welcomes me back with its view now transformed by darkness—scattered lights from distant towns, the black expanse of water, the Milky Way spilled across the sky like someone knocked over a jar of stars.

I should be exhausted. Transatlantic flight, ferry ride, emotional whiplash of the past forty-eight hours. Instead, I feel wired with possibility, like I'm standing at the edge of something I can't quite name.

Tomorrow I'll explore the resort properly. Maybe swim in one of those three pools. Maybe read on my terrace and work on my tan. Maybe figure out what self-discovery actually looks like when you're not running from something but toward yourself.

I brush my teeth and change into pajamas, then stand one more time on the terrace, wine glass empty, the night air raising goosebumps on my arms.

"I made it," I say to no one, to everyone, to myself.

The wind catches the words and carries them toward the caldera, where they disappear into darkness and distance and whatever comes next.

I sleep deeply, dreamlessly, and wake to sunlight streaming through the terrace doors. My phone shows 9:47 AM—I've slept twelve hours straight, my body finally surrendering to exhaustion it's been fighting for months.

The resort breakfast sounds too complicated for a first morning. Instead, I dress in shorts and a tank top, planning to explore and maybe find coffee somewhere quiet.

My suitcase sits by the door where I left it last night, half-empty from my quick unpacking. I'll finish organizing later, after I've walked off the travel fog.

The corridor is empty, most guests apparently still sleeping or already at breakfast. I take the elevator down to the lobby, then head toward the main terrace where I remember seeing signs for the pools.

The marble steps leading to the pool level gleam in morning light, recently cleaned and still slightly damp. I navigate carefully, thinking about the concierge's warning about uneven surfaces, my canvas bag heavy with my journal and guidebook.

Halfway down, my sandal catches on something—a lip in the marble, a wet spot, my own distraction. I stumble forward, arms windmilling, my bag swinging wild.

And that's when I see him.

A man at the bottom of the steps, dark hair catching sunlight, already moving toward me before I've finished falling.