Chapter 4
617 Words
"Time drifts like waves upon the sand,
A fleeting touch, a shifting land.
We chase, we hold, yet slip away,
What lingers past the light of day?"
— Unknown
---
The sun dips below the horizon, bleeding gold and crimson across the sky. The wind carries the scent of salt and earth, and the distant cries of seagulls fade into the hum of evening. Isla stands by the front door, arms folded, waiting.
The familiar rumble of an engine grows louder.
Dust rises from the unpaved road as a dark-colored car pulls up in front of the house. Before the wheels stop turning, Isha is already running.
"Pa!"
The door swings open, and their father steps out, broad-shouldered and weary-eyed. His salt-and-pepper hair is messier than usual, and a shadow of stubble lines his jaw. He barely has time to brace himself before Isha crashes into him, clinging to his waist.
He chuckles, the sound rough but warm. "Isha, you're getting too fast for me." He ruffles her hair, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head.
"You've been gone forever," Isha grumbles into his coat.
"A month isn't forever."
"It felt like it."
Isla watches from the doorway, heart steady, emotions tucked away. When her father’s gaze meets hers, there’s a beat of hesitation, as if he’s unsure how to greet her.
"Welcome home, Pa," she says, voice even.
His smile is brief, a little unsure. "It’s good to be back."
Isla nods and steps aside, letting him pass. The house feels different when he's around.
Their father goes up to freshen
As they all settle down for dinner
The small wooden table is set with simple dishes—roasted fish, warm bread, and a bowl of fresh fruit. The scent of rosemary and garlic fills the air.
Isha chatters nonstop, filling their father in on everything he missed.
"The parish lady asked about you," she says between bites of bread. "She said you should come by next time you’re in town."
Their father hums, slicing into his fish. "I will."
Isla barely eats. She picks at her food, listening but not speaking much. Their father glances at her now and then, as if noticing the space between them but unsure how to cross it.
"How’s work?" she asks eventually.
He sighs, setting down his fork. "Busy. The last voyage was rough—storms delayed us, and there were mechanical issues with one of the ships."
"Did you fix it?" Isha asks, eyes wide.
"Of course." A small smile touches his lips. "Can't leave a ship stranded, can we?"
Isla watches him, noting the exhaustion in his face. Marine engineering—long trips, unpredictable waters. He’s more familiar with ocean currents than with the small details of their lives.
Later, when the house settles into silence, Isla retreats to her room.
The small lantern by her bedside flickers, casting a soft, golden glow. She picks up her notebook, running her fingers over the worn cover before flipping to a blank page.
She hesitates.
Then, slowly, she begins to write.
A Poem by Isla Whitmore
"Love is not a whispered word,
Not fleeting glances, lightly heard.
It lingers in the space between,
A touch, a breath, the things unseen.
It is the hush before the rain,
A quiet ache, a sweet refrain.
It does not beg, it does not plead,
It simply stays, it simply breathes."
---
She sets the pen down and leans back against the headboard.
Outside, the waves crash against the shore in a steady rhythm. The sound has always comforted her—a reminder that even things that leave always find their way back.
She wonders if love is the same.
- Writer
