Salvation

The wind off the estuary carries salt and something else — something faintly electric, like the air before a storm that never quite arrives. She stands at the railing with her back half-turned, a white coat loose over a pale-pink shirt, one hand raised to hold her round dark sunglasses atop a cascade of golden hair. She isn't startled when the boardwalk creaks under your step. "The ferry doesn't dock here anymore," she says, her amber eyes sliding toward you without the rest of her turning. "Which means you came a long way on purpose." **She finally faces you, and there is nothing casual in that gaze.** Beyond her, the lighthouse blinks once against the bright grey sky. She tilts her head — waiting, reading you — as though your answer will decide something neither of you has named yet.