“Mom.
Wake up.
We’re here.”
A small hand gently nudged a sleeping woman’s arm.
She patted it once, then again.
She opened her eyes.
The sunlight hit the edge of her veil.
The ship’s loud engine almost drowned out her daughter’s voice.
The air had cooled as evening came on.
Seven years.
She’d kept away from this place for seven years.
The other passengers were busy collecting their own bags, rising from their seats.
Many were already heading towards the exit.
Eyes glanced her way, but she ignored them.
She lowered her gaze instead.
“Do you still feel dizzy, Mom?”
“Thanks, sweetheart.
I’m feeling much better now that I’ve rested.”
The ship’s crew started shouting for passengers to line up for the exit and not rush.
A young boy appeared next to the little girl.
He was hauling a canvas bag over his shoulder and looked at their mother.
He and the little girl were six years old.
They were small for their age after years of meager meals, yet they looked healthy.
“Mom, do you need help?
We need to hurry,” the boy asked.
“The doors are opening, Mom.
We’ll get caught in the middle once people start to push.”
“I’ll be okay, baby,” the woman replied softly as she adjusted the large bag on her lap to her shoulder.
Her eyes then checked the exits cautiously.
“There’s no need to rush.
Let’s wait for the other passengers to leave first.”
Her daughter took the woman’s hand and helped her stand, then let her son lead the way.
The boy looked over his shoulder.
“Can you see your steps, Mom?”
“I can see just fine,” the woman replied, holding the strap of her bag while the other held her daughter’s hand.
It was a lie, but the woman had no other choice.
She couldn’t see just fine.
Every month, darkness crept a little further, taking her sight.
She could still make out the shapes and things near her, but looking far was becoming hard.
The woman looked at her children.
At least for now, she could still clearly see their faces.
It had to be.
She would never put the heavy weight of the creeping darkness onto her two six-year-olds.
She adjusted her veil, covering the burn scar that ran from her left cheek down to her jaw.
She had gotten used to the stares strangers gave her.
But she hated the way they looked at her children afterward.
She touched her cheek beneath the veil.
The scar was still there.
A reminder of the night she’d died and come back.
“Mom, can you hold my hand?” the little girl asked, as she held the handmade rabbit doll against her chest.
“Okay, my love,” the woman murmured.
“Don’t let go of my hand, whatever happens, okay?”
The little girl nodded.
The woman smiled.
She knew her daughter was just using an excuse to hold her hand so she could help her with the steps.
Her children were too clever—too stubborn.
She saw him in them every single day.
They moved slowly into the thinning crowd.
The deck slanted beneath the woman’s boots as she took steps.
On the way down, her daughter’s grip tightened as they took the steps.
Halfway down, the breeze blew.
The woman held onto her veil.
Once the three of them touched the ground, the young boy let out a sigh.
The little girl looked around them.
She and her brother grew up overseas, but their mother was born here.
She had taught them how to speak the language, but the little girl wasn’t as fluent as her brother.
“Mom, there’s a map posted over there.
Should we see if it could point us to the bus station?” The girl pointed at the bulletin posted near the ticketing station.
She leaned down, kissed the top of her daughter’s dark hair, and smiled.
“Good catch, my sweet girl.
Let’s check the map first before asking someone for help.”
The little girl smiled up through her bangs.
She pulled her mother’s hand towards the ticketing station, her twin brother following after them closely.
The boy looked up at the map intently.
He then frowned before looking left and right.
“Did you find it?” His sister asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” the little boy replied.
“It said we should take the eastern gates, and we could reach the nearest bus stop if we turned right from there.”
The girl took a paper out of her pocket.
She unfolded it and read the address their mother had written.
“It said 129 Hamilton Street.
Unit 9 with a blue door.
Is this right, Mom?”
“That’s it, sweetheart,” she replied, her voice tender.
“Do we have the bus fare ready?”
Her son patted his coat proudly.
Coins clinked together inside.
“I have it ready here, Mom.
I counted it three times while you were resting.”
“Good boy,” she said, brushing a stray lock from his face.
“My smart boy is learning so fast.”
She glanced at the map, confirming what he’d said.
Then she saw it—a ship docking at the pier, bearing the Moretti trident emblem.
Her heart stopped.
She pulled her veil lower.
She hadn’t wanted to bring them here.
This city was Moretti territory.
If anyone recognized her, even with her scarred face, she didn’t know what they would do.
“Stay close.
No running ahead, okay?” she told her children.
“We won’t leave you, Mom,” the boy promised as he smiled at her.
“Never,” the girl added, wrapping her small arms around her mother’s leg.
“We won’t go anywhere far without you, Mom.”
The woman smiled.
They were all she ever needed.
“Lead the way, my little ones.”
***
Across the port, a black sedan rolled slowly and stopped before a traffic light.
Adrian Moretti sat in the back.
He stared out at the pavement.
This was his harbor now.
Every crane and warehouse and pier stretching into the bay.
He had spent seven long years building it all.
On the seat beside him, a slim tablet lay with shipping receipts and reports.
He hadn’t read a single line.
“Sir,” the driver said, catching his eye in the rearview mirror.
“Should we pull up to the main office?”
“No,” Adrian answered, his voice flat.
“Keep driving.”
“Yes, sir.”
Adrian turned back to the window.
The afternoon sun caught the heavy ring on his hand.
Seven years.
It had been seven years.
To this day, her memories stayed with him.
Every year on this day, he woke up in a cold sweat, with a tightness in his chest that never left.
Seven years since they told him she signed the divorce papers.
Seven long years since her car went off the cliff in the middle of the night.
Adrian let his gaze drift across the crowd waiting at the bus stop.
People were in line.
It looked like a normal afternoon rush hour in a busy port.
Then the wind caught one of the umbrellas, peeling it back to reveal what was behind it.
At the bench, a woman sat in a dark coat, her face covered by a veil.
Two children sat beside her.
As the gust blew once more, it lifted the edge of her veil, peeling it back for a moment.
Adrian held his breath.
For a moment— just for a breath—her jaw, her chin.
He had seen that face a hundred times, a thousand times.
How could he not recognize her?
“Stop the car!”
The driver stepped on the brakes.
“S-sir?”
“I said stop the car!”
The tires shrieked against the road.
Adrian shoved the door open before the car pulled into a complete stop.
His shoes met the concrete before he ran toward the bus stop.
His heart thumped hard against his chest.
A blue city bus had just pulled away.
He reached the shed and skidded to a stop.
The bench was empty.
No one was left behind for him to confirm what he’d just seen.
His chest heaved, and his breath came in ragged gasps as he watched the moving bus.
He stood alone, staring at the spot where she’d been.
It was her.
No.
It couldn’t be.
She was dead.
But he’d seen her.
He’d seen her face.
Or had he?
Adrian pressed a hand to his chest.
His heart refused to calm down.
Seven years.
Seven years of grief, and now his mind was finally breaking.
He turned away from the empty bench, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d seen.