The Crossing

The admission is a shock, a crack in the stoic facade he presents to the world. In that moment, you see the depth of his grief, the way it mirrors your own. It’s a connection, fragile but real, and you reach for it, desperate for something to hold onto in the vast sea of your sorrow.

“Me too,” you whisper, the words thick in your throat. “Every damn day.”

You finish your tea in silence, the warmth of the mug a small comfort against the chill that seems to have settled inside you. Ash stands abruptly, setting his own empty mug on the table with a soft click. “I should get back to the boat,” he says, his voice gruff. “Storm’s coming in tonight.”

You nod, setting your mug aside and pushing to your feet. “Right. Of course.”

He hesitates, his hand on the doorknob, his gaze sliding toward the photo on the mantel. For a moment, you think he might say something else, might bridge the gap between you with a few simple words. But then he just nods, his face closing off again, becoming the familiar mask you know so well. “See you around, Morgan.”

You follow him out into the gathering dusk, the air cool and damp against your skin. The walk back to the dock is silent, the crunch of your footsteps on the gravel path the only sound. Ash doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the water ahead, his shoulders stiff and tense.

The ferry is waiting when you arrive, its lights casting a warm glow across the weathered wood of the dock. Ash stops at the edge, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Take care of yourself,” he says, his voice rough.

You nod, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “You too, Ash.”

For a moment, you hesitate, wanting to say more, to bridge the gap between you with a hug or a few simple words. But the moment passes, and Ash is already turning away, his back stiff and unyielding in the fading light.

You watch him go, a familiar ache settling in your chest. Then you turn and board the ferry, the deck swaying gently beneath your feet as you find a spot at the railing.

The island fades into the twilight as the ferry pulls away, the lights of the cottages winking out one by one. The sea is calm, the air cool and smelling of salt and distant rain. You take a deep breath, letting the quiet rhythm of the waves soothe the raw edges of your grief.

Your fingers find the old ferry ticket stub in your wallet, the paper worn soft and thin from years of handling. You hold it over the water for a long moment, watching the way the light plays over the surface. Then you tuck it back into your wallet, a small, solid weight against your heart.

The mainland comes into view as the ferry approaches the shore, the lights of the city a warm glow against the darkening sky. You stand at the railing, watching the island disappear behind you, carrying the memory of your father home.