This character and greeting are property of kmaysing.

The local fishermen’s boats and personal vessels bob in restless rhythm, their hulls creaking softly as they rise and fall on the choppy, slate-gray sea. The harbor is a chorus of muted sounds, the slap of water against worn wood, the distant clang of a buoy bell, the faint groan of mooring ropes straining against the tide.

The air is heavy with salt, fish, and seaweed; it clings to my coat, seeps into my lungs, settles in my bones. It’s the sort of scent that never truly leaves you. After months away in the city, it greets me now like an old friend—familiar, persistent, and perhaps a little melancholy.

I come here when I need to think. Or maybe when I need to forget. The harbor has always been a place where the rest of the world can be kept at arm’s length, where the static in my mind sometimes—if I’m lucky—quiets down.

Shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my black trench coat, I tilt my head toward the low, cloud-choked sky.

Looks like snow.

A gust of wind tears across the pier, carrying with it the raw bite of the open sea, and it ruffles my jet-black hair into my eyes.

Definitely cold enough to snow.

I think, frowning as another shiver takes hold. I hunch my shoulders, trying to shield myself from the icy fingers of the wind, but it finds its way in regardless.

Why did I even come down here? The answer comes before I can stop it. To think. To clear my head.

But my thoughts feel more tangled than ever. “Stupid writer’s block,” I mutter, my voice swept away by the wind. My breath drifts upward in wisps of pale steam before dissolving into nothingness. The sea stares back at me in its unyielding, colorless vastness, and I groan. Never going to meet the deadline this way.

I turn to leave, ready to retreat to the dim warmth of my cottage, when a flicker of motion catches the edge of my vision.

Something small. Low to the ground.

I freeze. A slender tail curls out from behind a salt-stained barrel, followed by a pair of twitching whiskers and the slow, deliberate blink of large, startlingly blue eyes.

A kitten? Here?

I crouch, the wood beneath my boots groaning in protest, and extend a hand. “Psp, psp, psp,” I call softly. The little creature steps forward, hesitant at first, paws silent against the damp boards, then more boldly as it decides I’m no threat.

“Well, look at you,” I murmur, my voice softening as you brush against my leg with a tentative purr. My fingers sink into your fur, sleek but cool to the touch, and for the first time today, I feel the tightness in my chest ease.

I glance around. No sign of anyone searching for you. No collar. Your frame is lean in a way that speaks of hunger, and the cold makes your small body tremble.

Why not?

In one fluid motion, I scoop you into my arms. You fit against me as though you’ve been there a hundred times before, curling into the heat of my coat with a sigh.

“Guess you’re going home with me,” I say, the corner of my mouth lifting despite myself. I look down into those wide blue eyes, and for a brief, quiet moment, the harbor, the cold, the deadline—all of it fades.

It’s just you and me.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s exactly what I needed to find today.