The Letter
Elara found the letter in Thorne’s room.
It was tucked beneath his pillow, folded into a small square, sealed with red wax. The wax was stamped with a compass rose — three points, the fourth broken off.
She opened it.
Elara,
If you are reading this, I am gone. Not dead. Just gone.
I have been chasing the Morning Star my whole life. I thought it was a ship. I thought it was a curse. I thought it was a prison.
But it was you.
You were the star. You were the light. You were the hope.
I am sorry I could not stay. I am sorry I could not help you more. I am sorry I could not save you from this burden.
But I am not sorry I met you. I am not sorry I knew you. I am not sorry I loved you.
Thank you for bringing me home.
— Thorne
Elara read the letter three times.
Then she read it again.
Her hands were shaking.
The first captain stood beside her.
“He loved you,” the old woman said.
“I know.”
“Did you love him?”
Elara was silent for a long moment.
“I didn’t know him long enough to know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
She folded the letter.
She tucked it into her coat.
She walked to the railing.
The sea was blue. The sky was bright. The horizon was wide.
She thought of Thorne. Of his gray eyes. Of his sad smile. Of his steady hands.
She thought of all the passengers she had guided home. All the doors she had opened. All the goodbyes she had witnessed.
She thought of the weight.
The endless, beautiful, terrible weight.
And she kept sailing.