The Father She Lost
The room was small.
A bed. A desk. A window that looked out onto nothing. The walls were bare, the floor was cold, the air was still.
And sitting on the bed, waiting for her, was a man.
He was old — older than she remembered, older than her father should have been. His hair was gray, his face was lined, his hands were gnarled. But his eyes were the same — brown and warm and full of love.
“Elara,” he whispered. “You came.”
“Dad?”
He stood.
His legs were shaking.
“I told your mother not to write. I told her to let you go. I told her to let us go.”
“I couldn’t. I had to find you.”
He walked to her.
He took her hands.
His skin was cold.
“You shouldn’t have come.”
Elara’s eyes filled with tears.
“Why? Why shouldn’t I have come?”
Her father looked at the door.
At the captain.
At the darkness.
“Because once you board the Morning Star, you cannot leave. Not ever. Not until the ship takes you.”
Elara’s blood went cold.
“What?”
“The ship is a prison. A beautiful, endless prison. Your mother and I have been trapped here for seventeen years. Now you are trapped with us.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She pulled her hands away.
“There has to be a way out.”
Her father shook his head.
“There is no way out. There is only the voyage. The endless voyage. The voyage that never ends.”
The captain stepped forward.
“Your father is right. The Morning Star does not release its passengers. Not willingly. Not ever.”
“Then why did you bring me here?”
The captain smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
“Because you are the key.”
“The key to what?”
The captain looked at her father.
At the door.
At the darkness.
“The key to unlocking the prison. The key to ending the voyage. The key to setting us all free.”