The lantern above the harbor stair had gone out again, and the fog came
up the steps like a slow tide. Nobody kept the light anymore — the last
keeper had left on the spring boat, and the town called the stair
“blind” now.

“You’re late,” the ferryman said, without turning. “The water knows it, even if you don’t.”

Mara counted out the fare twice. The coins were wet already.

— Then row faster, she said, and stepped aboard.
— The fog decides the speed, not me.
