The Morning Ferry – Part 2: The Last Crossing

On Friday morning, Daniel's bag sat beside him packed. The 6:40 ferry glided out into a pearl-grey mist, the mountain pale behind it.

"You're quiet," said Yuki.

"I'm trying to memorise it."

They stood at the stern rail together as the wake spread out behind them, white against the grey. A single gull followed, wheeling.

"Can I ask you something?" said Daniel.

"Yes."

"Will you write to me? From the ferry?"

"I will write from the seat with the sun," said Yuki, and swallowed. "I did not think I would mind. I mind."

"So do I."

"Your contract is finished. Could it be extended?"

"I asked on Wednesday," said Daniel, and a slow smile spread across his face. "They said yes. Six months. Maybe more."

Yuki stared at him. "And you did not tell me?"

"I wanted to see if you would be sad."

"That is cruel."

"It was an experiment," said Daniel, laughing. "A bad one. I'm sorry."

She hit his arm lightly, laughing too, and then they were both quiet, their faces close, the sun at last breaking through the mist and flooding the water with gold.

"May I kiss you?" said Daniel.

"Yes," said Yuki. "And if I say stop, you must steep every cup of tea for me for a year."

"A cruel punishment," said Daniel, and kissed her.

It was soft and warm and tasted of tea, one hand cupping her cheek, the ferry's engine thrumming gently beneath their feet. Gulls cried overhead. The harbour opened in front of them, pink and gold.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Yuki. "Very green."

On Monday at 6:40, the ferry left with two flasks on the seat by the sunny window, and two people very much on time.

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