The Copper Kettle

A young woman waits on a cold, fog-slicked dock for a specific, forgotten boat.

The air smelled of salt and wet stone. Fog, thick as old wool, stuck to the wooden dock. It was cold enough to sting, a damp cold that settled deep in her chest. Elara stood where the water met the posts, her breath becoming white puffs that disappeared in the grey. She watched the water, the black surface only broken by dull lights far out.

She had been there since the sun disappeared. The quiet pressed down, broken only by the slow slap of water on wood. She checked the watch. Another hour passed. The fishing skiff she waited for was late.

A low, sad sound cut the quiet—a groan from the fog itself. Elara pulled her arms tight. She needed that boat. It held things she could not name, things that belonged only to the water.

A shadow moved near the edge of the dock. A man came through the mist, shuffling. He wore a heavy, dark coat, his face hidden by the damp. He stopped a few feet from her, looking at the water, not at her.

“Still waiting for something gone?” His voice was rough, like sand grinding.

Elara looked up. Her eyes met his, dark and steady despite the cold. “It is not gone. It is a boat.”

The man shifted his weight. He looked at the water, then back at her, a quick look in his eyes. “Some things are just lost. They do not return.” He took a slow step back, the sound of his boots on the wood dull and final. Then, without speaking, he melted back into the fog.

Elara watched the spot where he stood. The fog rolled in, covering the space he had occupied. She did not move. She waited for the next sound, the next sign. Slowly, she reached into her pocket and touched the cold, smooth metal of the copper kettle inside her coat.