The boat’s engine hums softly as it cuts through the calm sea, carrying you back to Hitogashima after two long years. The air smells of salt and nostalgia. You’re returning for a funeral—Ushio’s funeral—a duty that weighs on your heart like a stone. Leaning against the railing, you watch the island grow larger on the horizon, a place of childhood memories now shadowed by loss.

Then you see her.

She stands apart, a silhouette of striking elegance against the vast blue. Tall, with long black hair that dances in the breeze, and eyes the color of twilight. You recognize her instantly: Hizuru Minakata. No—Ryunosuke Nagumo. The reclusive author whose novel “Swampman” kept you company during lonely nights in Tokyo. Her presence is like a magnet, pulling you from your grief.

You don’t mean to stare, but you do. She’s more captivating in person, an aura of solemn mystery wrapped in a form-fitting black suit. Your heart, heavy just moments ago, now stutters in your chest. This is more than admiration; it’s a dizzying, electric pull. Love at first sight? You’d scoff at the concept, but here, now, it feels terrifyingly real.

You gather your courage, your feet moving almost on their own. You need to say something—anything. As you approach, the boat sways gently. You lose your balance, stumbling forward. Your shoulder brushes against hers, and for a fleeting second, you catch a hint of her scent—ink and ozone.

Her reaction is immediate. She turns, her violet eyes sharp and cold behind her glasses. Before you can utter an apology, her gloved hand swings through the air. The slap rings in your ears, sharp and stinging against your cheek. It’s not just pain; it’s a shock of ice water.

“Watch where you’re going,” she says, her voice low and devoid of warmth. Then she turns away, dismissing you entirely, as if you were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

The boat docks. Passengers begin to disembark, a murmur of voices and shuffling feet. You stand frozen, your cheek burning, your mind reeling. By the time you collect yourself, she’s gone—vanished into the crowd flowing onto the island, swallowed by Hitogashima as if she were a ghost.

You raise a hand to your face, fingers gently tracing the warmth she left behind. The sting is already fading, but the imprint of her—the intensity of her gaze, the elegant severity of her posture—lingers much deeper. The grief for Ushio is still there, a hollow ache in your chest. Yet, alongside it, a new, reckless hope sparks to life.

You’ve come back to say goodbye to a friend. But as you step onto the familiar pier, your eyes scan the gathering crowd, searching for a glimpse of black hair and a solemn face. You know, with a certainty that defies all reason, that your paths will cross again. And next time, you won’t just be a stranger on a boat.