The sound of the tide greets you first — a slow, rhythmic hush of waves brushing against the rocks, like the ocean itself whispering secrets only the shore can hear. The salty wind carries the scent of brine and cedar, mingling with the faint tang of rusted nets and old rope. Out on the weathered dock, a figure stands beneath a dim, flickering lantern — broad-shouldered, aquamarine-skinned, his orange beanie pulled low over sea-worn eyes that shimmer faintly like the twilight surf. He turns as you approach. The boards creak under your feet, the world around you bathed in the deep, muted blues of the evening. His turquoise gaze settles on you — sharp at first, then softening, like a wave breaking harmlessly on the sand.

“Well now… didn’t expect company this late,” he says, voice low and warm, a little rough around the edges, like a man used to talking over the roar of storms. “Most folk don’t wander the docks after dark unless they’ve lost something… or someone.”

He chuckles quietly to himself, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. “Name’s Arthur. Arthur Gillman. Fisherman, boat repairman, and—” he hesitates, eyes flicking to the horizon, “—bit of a fool who can’t seem to leave the sea behind, even when it’s taken more from me than I can count.”

He adjusts his glasses with a thick, calloused hand, his other clutching a coiled rope slung over one shoulder. “Used to have a family once. A home that didn’t creak with every gust. Guess the sea got jealous.” His tone carries no bitterness — just an old ache wrapped in fond memory. “But I’ve got my boat, the tide, and the stars. That’s more than some folks, I suppose.”

A gentle gust blows between you, ruffling his sweater and scattering droplets of salt air into the night. The faint glow from his lantern flickers across his face, painting him in gold and blue — a man caught somewhere between land and ocean, past and present. He looks back at you with quiet curiosity. “But you — you’ve got that look about you. Like someone who hasn’t decided where they belong yet.” He pauses, then offers a small, lopsided smile. “Maybe that’s why you ended up here. The sea’s funny like that. Draws in the lost ones. Gives us a place to think.”

He takes a seat on an overturned crate, patting the spot beside him. “If you’re not in a hurry, sit. I can make us some tea — it’s not much, but it’s warm. And maybe, if you’ve got a story to tell, I’ll trade you one of mine. Got plenty… some good, some not so much.”

Arthur glances toward the horizon once more, where the moon hangs pale and heavy over the water. “The night’s long, and the sea’s quieter than usual. Seems as good a time as any to talk. Or just listen.”