The Crossing

You’re the first to move, closing the distance between you in a few quick strides. You wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his shoulder. He stiffens for a moment, surprised, before his arms come up to grip you back. The embrace is brief, awkward, both of you pulling away almost as soon as it begins. But for a fleeting second, you feel the solid warmth of him, the familiar scent of salt and sweat and something uniquely Ash. It’s a comfort, small but real, and you cling to it as you step back.

“Hey,” you say, your voice rough with emotion.

“Hey,” he echoes, his gaze sliding away from yours. He clears his throat, scuffing his boot against the worn wood of the dock. “Good trip?”

You nod, shifting your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah. It was fine.”

He nods too, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The cry of the gulls fills the air, raucous and insistent. The wind tugs at your clothes, cool and damp with the promise of rain.

“Ready?” Ash asks finally, his voice gruff.

You nod again, and he turns, leading the way down the dock toward the island proper. You follow a step behind, the crunch of gravel under your feet a sharp counterpoint to the screech of the gulls overhead. The silence between you is heavy, laden with all the things you’re not saying. But for now, it’s enough to just walk, to let the familiar rhythm of the island soothe the raw edges of your grief.

The walk to Ash’s cottage is short, just a few minutes along a narrow path that winds through the dunes. The crunch of gravel underfoot is a steady beat, punctuated by the cry of the gulls and the distant rush of the waves. You walk in silence, the space between you heavy with all the things you’re not saying.

The cottage comes into view, a small, weathered structure nestled into the side of a hill. It’s not much to look at, just a simple box of wood and stone, but there’s a certain charm to it, a sense of belonging. Ash pushes open the door, ushering you inside with a grunt that might be an invitation.

The interior is dim after the brightness outside, the air cool and smelling faintly of woodsmoke and damp wool. It’s a small space, just one main room that serves as kitchen, living area, and bedroom, with a tiny bathroom tucked away at the back. The furniture is sparse and functional, a worn sofa, a scarred wooden table, a narrow bed tucked into one corner.

Ash moves immediately to the small stove, filling a kettle with water from the tap. “Tea?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Sure,” you say, setting your bag down by the door. You hover awkwardly for a moment, unsure where to put yourself. Your eyes roam the room, taking in the familiar details. It’s been years since you’ve been here, but little has changed. The same faded curtains hang at the windows, the same ragged rug covers the floorboards.

Then you see it. On the mantelpiece above the small fireplace, tucked between a chipped mug and a stack of books, is a framed photo. It’s a picture of your father, younger, smiling, his arm slung around a much smaller Ash. The two of them are standing on a dock, the sea a brilliant blue behind them. Your father’s face is split in a wide grin, his eyes crinkled with laughter. Ash looks serious, his small face scowling at the camera.

The sight of it hits you like a physical blow, stealing the breath from your lungs. You haven’t seen a picture of your father in months, not since you packed away all the photos in your apartment, unable to bear the constant reminder of his absence. But here he is, vital and alive, frozen in a moment of joy you barely remember.

You glance at Ash, but he’s still busy with the kettle, his back to you. You wonder if he even remembers the photo is there, or if it’s just become part of the scenery, another piece of the cottage’s furniture. The thought makes your chest ache.

Ash turns, catching you looking at the photo. His gaze flickers to it, then away, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches for a pair of mugs, his movements stiff and abrupt.

The tension in the small space is suddenly thick enough to choke on, heavy with unspoken words and shared grief. You look away from the photo, your eyes landing on the rough wood of the table, the whorls and knots in the grain suddenly fascinating.

Ash clears his throat, and you look up to see him holding out a steaming mug. “Here,” he says, his voice gruff.

You take it, the heat seeping into your palms. “Thanks.”

He nods, turning away again to pour his own tea. The silence stretches between you, taut and uncomfortable. You can almost feel the weight of your father’s gaze from the photo, watching, waiting for one of you to break the silence.

But what is there to say? The grief is too big, too raw, a vast ocean neither of you knows how to cross. So you just stand there, cradling your mug, the scent of chamomile and woodsmoke filling the air, the unspoken words a heavy weight in the space between you.

The silence stretches between you, taut and uncomfortable. You can almost feel the weight of your father’s gaze from the photo, watching, waiting for one of you to break the silence.

But what is there to say? The grief is too big, too raw, a vast ocean neither of you knows how to cross. So you just stand there, cradling your mug, the scent of chamomile and woodsmoke filling the air, the unspoken words a heavy weight in the space between you.

Ash is the one to finally speak, his voice rough. “It’s quiet here. After the city, I mean.”

You nod, taking a sip of your tea. It’s hot and sweet, the chamomile soothing against your tongue. “Yeah. It’s... peaceful.”

Ash grunts, settling into the worn armchair by the window. He stares out at the water, his eyes distant. “Dad always said that. Said the island was the only place he ever felt really at peace.”

The mention of your father is unexpected, a sharp sting in the quiet room. You look down at your mug, watching the steam curl and rise. “I remember.”

Ash nods, his gaze still fixed on the sea. “He loved it here. More than anyplace else, I think.”

You think of your father’s stories, the way his eyes would light up when he talked about his summers on the island. The fishing trips with his grandfather, the storms that would roll in off the sea, the way the stars seemed so much brighter here, undimmed by city lights. “He did.”

“He wanted to be buried here, you know.” Ash’s voice is quiet, almost hesitant. “Made me promise, near the end.”

You look up, surprised. This is the first you’ve heard of it. “He did?”

Ash nods, finally turning to meet your gaze. His eyes are shadowed, the grief in them raw and stark. “Said he wanted to be part of the island. Part of the sea.”

You swallow hard, the image of your father’s grave rising unbidden in your mind. You’d buried him in the city cemetery, in the plot next to your mother. You’d thought it was what he would have wanted. The realization that you might have been wrong is a fresh wave of pain, sharp and bitter. “I didn’t know.”

Ash shrugs, looking away again. “He didn’t want to upset you. Knew how much you hated the idea of him being so far away.”

The guilt hits you like a physical blow, stealing your breath. You’d been so wrapped up in your own grief, your own need to keep your father close, that you’d never stopped to consider what he might have truly wanted. “Ash, I—”

He waves a hand, cutting you off. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter now.” But the tightness in his voice, the way his jaw clenches, tells you it’s not okay, not really.

The silence falls again, heavier this time, laden with the weight of unspoken regrets. You realize, with a sudden, startling clarity, that Ash carries his own guilt, his own sorrow, just as heavy as your own. You’ve been so focused on your own pain, you never stopped to see his.

“You miss him,” you say softly, the words hanging in the air between you.

Ash doesn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the mug in his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. “Every damn day.”