The Copper Kettle's Shadow

A young woman waits on a cold, rain-slicked dock for a specific, unseen boat.

Salt and wet stone filled the air. Rain hit the wooden dock with hard blows. Elara pulled her thin coat tight; water soaked through the cheap cloth. The water under the pier was black, showing the weak, bruised light of the late afternoon sky. She looked at the horizon where only grey space moved.

She had been here since morning. The smell of diesel and dead seaweed stuck to her clothes. Every few minutes, a sound broke the dull noise—a low, grinding rumble, the sound of a big engine fighting the current. It wasn't the boat she waited for, but the sound meant something was near.

A man stepped out from behind a pile of boxes near the post. He was tall, his boots heavy, and he did not look at her right away. He just watched the water, his hands buried in his pockets.

Elara shifted her weight; the rough wood scraped under her old boots. She finally spoke, her voice weak against the rain. "Is it coming?"

The man turned. His face was rough, marked by wind and sun. He did not say hello. He looked at the water, then back at her. "It will come," he said. His voice was low, like stones rolling in the tide. He took a slow step to the edge of the pier, the water touching his ankles. "But it does not come for anyone waiting."

He turned back to the dark space. Elara watched him. The engine sound got louder, closer now, a growl in the wet air. He did not move toward the water. He just stood there, a dark shape against the grey, until the shape of a large boat finally broke the mist.