The chipped ceramic mug warmed Maya’s hands, a small comfort against the chill that seeped into her bones, even in July. The balcony overlooked the harbor, the familiar rhythm of the waves usually a soothing lullaby. Tonight, though, each crash against the breakwater sounded like a closing door.
He’d been gone six months. Six months since the fishing boat had been swallowed by the storm, leaving no trace. Everyone had given up hope. Everyone except Maya.
She’d come to this spot every evening since, a silent vigil. She’d watch the fishing boats return, their lights twinkling like lost stars finding their way home. Each time, her heart would leap, a foolish, fragile bird hoping to find its nest. And each time, the hope would crumble, leaving behind a...