The Crossing

You’d promised you would, the words thick in your throat. It had felt like such a small thing, a token gesture in the face of the enormity of his illness. But now, holding that ticket in your hand as the ferry carries you toward the island, it feels like so much more.

The stub is warm now, warmed by your skin. You turn it over in your fingers, tracing the faded ink. It’s just a piece of paper, and yet it feels like a tether to your father, to that hospital room, to the promise you made.

Another memory surfaces, sharp and bright. His hand in yours, his grip surprisingly strong despite the weakness of his body. He’d squeezed your fingers, hard, his eyes locked on yours. “I’m proud of you, Morgan,” he’d whispered. “So proud of who you are.”

The words had startled you, unexpected in that sterile space. You’d blinked back tears, squeezing his hand in return. There had been so much you wanted to say in that moment, so many questions you wanted to ask. About his life, about his regrets, about what he hoped for you and Ash. But the words had lodged in your throat, trapped by the fear of saying the wrong thing, of upsetting him.

Now, with the rumble of the ferry’s engine beneath you and the faded ticket stub in your hand, those unspoken questions echo in your mind. You tuck the ticket back into your wallet, the worn leather familiar against your fingers. It’s a small weight, but it feels significant, a reminder of all the things left unsaid.

You lean back in your seat, closing your eyes. The gentle sway of the ferry is almost hypnotic, the steady vibration of the engine a white noise that fills your mind. For a moment, you let yourself drift, carried by the motion of the boat and the weight of memory.

When you open your eyes again, the cabin is still quiet, just the low hum of the lights and the distant rush of the waves against the hull. You take a deep breath, the faint smell of diesel and popcorn filling your lungs. It’s time. Time to face the island, to face Ash, to face the ghost of your father that seems to linger just out of reach.

You stand, your legs stiff from sitting. The ticket stub is a small, solid presence in your wallet, a promise kept. You walk toward the doors that lead back out to the deck, ready to face whatever comes next. The past is with you, carried close, but the future is waiting on the island ahead.

You step out onto the deck, the wind immediately whipping your hair back from your face. The salt spray is a welcome shock after the stale air of the cabin. You take a deep breath, letting the cool, damp air fill your lungs. The ferry rocks gently beneath your feet, a steady, soothing rhythm.

You find a spot near the railing, away from the few other passengers braving the wind. The water stretches out on all sides, a vast, rippling expanse of blue and gray. The sun is hidden behind a thin layer of clouds, casting a pale, diffuse light over everything. You lean against the railing, watching the waves roll and shift.

Your thoughts drift back to Ash, to the conversation you’re both avoiding. You haven’t seen him since the funeral, and even then, you’d barely spoken. He’d been a silent, brooding presence, his grief a tangible weight in the air. You’d wanted to reach out to him, to bridge the gap that had always seemed to exist between you, but the words had died on your lips, choked by your own sorrow.

Now, with the island drawing closer and the promise of your father hanging between you, the thought of seeing Ash fills you with a mix of anticipation and dread. What will you say to each other? How do you even begin to unravel a year’s worth of grief and silence?

As if summoned by your thoughts, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, squinting at the screen in the diffuse light. It’s a text from Ash.

*Running late. Meet you at the dock.*

The message is typically terse, just like Ash himself. No apologies, no explanations, just a simple statement of fact. You can almost hear his voice in the words, gruff and matter-of-fact. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, unexpected and welcome. Some things, it seems, never change.

You type out a quick reply—*No worries. See you soon.*—and tuck the phone back into your pocket. The ferry rocks gently, the deck swaying beneath your feet. You watch as a family with young children emerges from the interior cabin, their laughter bright and incongruous against the backdrop of the sea.

The two kids, a boy and a girl, race to the railing, their eyes wide with excitement. They point at the water, chattering to each other in high, clear voices. Their parents follow behind, smiling indulgently. The father lifts the little girl up so she can see better, and she squeals with delight, clapping her hands.

You watch them, a familiar ache settling in your chest. Their joy is so uncomplicated, so bright. It’s a stark contrast to the quiet grief that seems to have taken up permanent residence inside you. You can’t remember the last time you felt that kind of unguarded happiness. The past year has been a blur of numbness and sorrow, punctuated by moments of sharp, breathless pain.

The little boy turns and catches sight of you watching them. He gives you a wide, gap-toothed grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief. You can’t help but smile back, just a little. His innocence, his simple pleasure in the moment, is a balm to your ragged edges.

As you watch the family, the mother glances your way. Her eyes are kind, crinkling at the corners as she smiles at you. You look away quickly, afraid she’ll see the sadness in your eyes, the weight you carry. You focus instead on the water, on the way the light plays over the shifting surface.

The ferry rolls over a larger wave, and the little girl squeals again, clinging to her father’s neck. He laughs, a deep, rich sound that carries over the wind. The sound is so alive, so vibrant, that it makes your heart clench in your chest. You remember your father’s laugh, the way it would boom out, filling any space he was in. You haven’t heard Ash laugh like that in years. You wonder if he even remembers how.

The thought brings a fresh wave of grief, sharp and sudden. You grip the railing tighter, the cold metal biting into your palms. You miss your father with a fierceness that steals your breath. You miss his voice, his stories, the way he’d ruffle your hair when you were young. You miss the way he’d look at you, his eyes soft with understanding, as if he could see straight into your soul.

But most of all, you miss the way he seemed to hold your family together, the glue that kept you and Ash from drifting too far apart. Without him, it feels like you’re both just floating, untethered, with no clear direction. You’re not sure how to find your way back to each other, how to bridge the gap that’s only seemed to widen since he’s been gone.

The family moves away from the railing, heading back inside. The little boy waves at you as they go, and you wave back, your smile feeling brittle and forced. Their laughter fades, leaving you alone with the wind and the waves and the ache inside you.

You take a deep breath, the salt air filling your lungs. The ferry is nearing the island now, the shore a smudge of green and brown on the horizon. The text from Ash feels heavy in your pocket, a reminder of what’s waiting for you. You’re not sure you’re ready to face it, to face him. But the ferry carries you forward, relentless, and you know you have no choice. The island, and Ash, and the ghost of your father, await.

The ferry rolls beneath your feet, a steady, comforting rhythm that’s become almost familiar. You watch the island grow closer, the smudge on the horizon resolving into distinct shapes—trees, buildings, the curve of a sandy beach. The sight should bring some measure of comfort, a sense of homecoming. But instead, the knot in your chest only tightens, your grief a heavy stone in your gut.

You need a moment, just a few minutes to collect yourself before you face Ash and whatever waits on that island. Turning away from the railing, you head inside, the wind at your back urging you forward.