Chapter 2
316 Words
"Reality is a whispered dream,
A fleeting touch, a silent scream.
What’s seen may shift, what’s felt may stray,
Perhaps we wake, but not today."
— Unknown
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The scent of sea salt drifts through the open windows as the late afternoon sun casts golden light across the wooden floors. Isla ties her hair into a loose bun, rolling up the sleeves of her blouse.
She hears the soft clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Isha is already making sure everything is perfect.
"I already got the sweets and cookies from the parish," Isha calls out. "She sends her greetings."
"Oh, you did?" Isla replies, grabbing a dust cloth. She moves toward their father’s mini library, a tall shelf lined with books that smell of ink, paper, and time.
She runs a finger across the spines—marine engineering manuals, old navigation maps, and a handful of poetry books. Strange how their father, a man who spent most of his life at sea, found solace within the pages of a book.
As she dusts, her mind drifts. Their father will walk through that door soon, suitcase in hand, the scent of ocean salt still clinging to his coat. His presence is both familiar and foreign, like a wave that crashes onto the shore only to retreat again.
"You okay?" Isha asks, suddenly beside her.
Isla blinks. "Yeah. Just thinking."
Isha doesn’t push. Instead, she picks up a small wooden box from the shelf, tracing the carvings on its lid. "Pa’s favorite."
Inside are old letters, postcards from different countries—places Isla could only dream of visiting. The handwriting is firm, neat, but the words have always felt distant.
"We should put fresh flowers in the vase," Isha suggests, placing the box down. "He likes lilies."
Isla nods. "I’ll get them."
She said as she walks toward the garden.
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"Perhaps we wake, but not today."
- Writer
