And a hand print on her heart

It’s been three weeks, and she still cannot forget. Albeit the clarity fading slowly, what remains (and truly mattered) was his care and concern, for nobody has ever done what he did for her. Except her parents, if you would like to include them, but that was a parental obligation. She did not have to curl up into a ball, or have her sleep disrupted – evidently, it was quite a peaceful rest for she merely opened her eyes in the black mass, curious as to why she was warm, which phased into a pleasant surprise. When she awoke that morn, she saw him sit up across her, trembling with just an army bath towel to shield himself from the cold – however futile. Swept by guilt, a second wave hit her before she could process the situation, this time, composing of tremendous gratitude and warmth not just skin-deep but within. Upon being called back to reality, she grabs the sleeping bag and hastily tosses it across to the gentleman (who was shivering almost like a boy) whom she barely knew, yet chose to place her need for warmth  before his own.
But there’s a click. Not a spark, as was what happens in almost every cliche storyline in a romance novel. The ‘click’ seemed more like the one produced if one were to turn the key, upon inserting it into the lock of a rusty trove.
But if the Trove called a shipwreck its home, who would, or how would one be able to locate the key, at all?

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