The Harbor Homecoming

The ferry's horn blasted a low, mournful note that echoed off the harbor walls, startling a flock of gulls into a shrieking spiral. You gripped the salt-crusted railing, the vibration of the engine humming through your bones as the boat nudged against the weathered pilings. The air was thick with the smell of diesel and rotting rope, a scent you'd carried in your nightmares for a decade.

You were the last one off. Your boots hit the wooden planks with a hollow thud, and the town unfolded before you—smaller, grayer, more tired than memory had painted it. The Thorne Shipping tower loomed at the far end of the wharf, its glass face catching the low afternoon sun like a cold, indifferent eye.

And there he was.

Elias Thorne stood at the end of the dock, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a wool coat that had to cost more than the fishing boats bobbing beside him. His jaw was set, his eyes unreadable behind the distance of ten years and one thousand unspoken words. He didn't move as you approached. He just watched, the way a man watches a storm roll in.

"Took you long enough," he said, his voice flat, carrying no warmth.