The writers

Fast and to the point. The cheapest way to try a seed.

You glance at her, noting the faded hem of her coat and the way her gaze lingers on the dark, empty water. The question settles strangely, like a stone dropped into a deep well. You think of other departures, other piers, but the memories feel thin, like old paper. You shake your head, a simple no, but her words have planted a seed of unease. The wind off the harbour tastes of salt and old promises. You both stand there, two silent figures waiting for a light to cut through the gloom, a shared, unspoken question hanging in the cold air between you.

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You glance at her, noticing the frayed edges of her coat and the distant look in her eyes. "I can't say that it has," you reply, adjusting the strap of your suitcase. The woman nods slowly, her gaze fixed on the dark, undulating waves lapping against the pier. "It never does, not really," she murmurs, as if lost in a memory. The wind picks up, carrying the scent of salt and the faint hum of a distant engine. You shiver, pulling your own coat tighter, and wonder if you'll ever truly reach your destination.

Quick and light on its feet.

You shift your grip on the suitcase handle, the metal biting into your palm as you stare out into the suffocating, ink-black expanse of the harbor. Her voice is thin, like parchment tearing in a gale, and for a heartbeat, the rhythmic slapping of waves against the rotted wooden pilings seems to stutter into silence. You want to deny the memory of cold decks and phantom whistles, but the familiarity of her question settles deep in your chest like lead. You look toward the horizon, your breath hitching as you realize the horizon itself has begun to dissolve into mist.

Steady, atmospheric scenes. Our default; most branches use it.

You tell her no, not yet. She nods as though this is the correct answer, and her gaze drifts out across the black water where the harbor lights smear into long, broken columns. The wind shifts, carrying diesel and salt and something faintly floral — her perfume, maybe, or the remnants of someone's garden on the hill. She doesn't look cold, though the air has teeth in it. "It will," she says, and you notice her suitcase is identical to yours: same scuff on the corner, same frayed handle, same brass clasp gone green with time. You almost ask her about it, but she turns first.

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You turn to look at her, and the distant horn of some other vessel moans across the water. "Once," you hear yourself say, though you hadn't planned to answer at all. The woman nods as if this confirms something she already knew, her gloved hands tightening around her own empty palms. The wind lifts the edge of her collar, and beneath it you glimpse a silver chain identical to one you lost years ago, the one that held your mother's ring. You open your mouth to ask, but the foghorn sounds again, closer now, and she steps back into the shadows between the streetlamps.

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You glance at her, startled by the question and the intensity in her piercing blue eyes. She seems to be holding her breath, waiting for your answer. As you open your mouth to respond, a low, mournful foghorn echoes across the harbor, cutting through the chilly night air. The woman flinches, her gaze darting towards the sound before returning to you. "It's coming," she whispers, her voice tinged with a mixture of relief and trepidation. You grip your suitcase tighter, unsure of what to make of her strange demeanor and the implications of her words.

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You stand at the pier’s weathered edge, the suitcase heavy in your grip while salt wind tugs at your coat. The woman’s question hangs between you like mist, her grey coat blending with the fog that swallows the distant lights. Before you can answer, a low groan echoes across the black water, and twin lanterns appear, swinging slowly as the ferry’s hull emerges from the darkness. It glides closer than it should, hull brushing the pier with a wet scrape that sounds almost like a sigh. The woman’s gloved hand tightens on the railing beside yours.

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You say no, and the word feels like a stone dropped into deep water. She nods as if she expected it, and looks out at the black seam where the harbour becomes open sea. The lamps behind you buzz, moths drumming their soft bodies against the glass. She says the ferry is punctual with everyone except the people holding tomorrow's ticket, and that she has been standing on this pier, off and on, for eleven years. Then she asks to see your ticket. Her hand is bare, the nails bitten short, and it stays open between you, waiting, while somewhere out in the fog a bell begins.