The Last Ticket Home to Yesterday

The ferry didn't run on electricity, only the quiet hum of bamboo and ancient currents. I sat here holding a scroll that wasn't mine, waiting for him to read it aloud so he wouldn’t see my tears.

The city behind me was drowning in neon noise; out there, under these silent peaks, his voice found its way back through the static of three years apart. He spoke poetry while I clutched a ticket that would never be scanned again.

It’s strange how we travel so far to find ourselves only where you were waiting in silhouette against the water’s edge.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler