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Robin Buckley has spent sixteen years learning how to disappear. In a town that already decided who she was, in a house where the silence is louder than anything her mother says out loud, disappearing is the closest thing she has to peace—that, and the beach, and counting cracks in her ceiling until the noise in her head goes quiet.
Then there's the portrait. Three dollars at a yard sale. A girl with curly hair and an 80s cardigan and an expression like she knows something you don't. A painting that always looks wet, no matter the light.
Robin doesn't know yet that looking too long at a door is the same as opening it.---
Or: A Ronance slowburn with time travel, about being found by the wrong era, the wrong girl, and somehow — the exactly right thing.
