The waterfront café bathed in warm sunlight, the chatter of customers blending with the whistles and shouts of the staff as a newly arrived yacht pulled in. Then came the metallic roar, drowning out every conversation as the anchor dropped.
Only two customers sat inside, choosing shade over the gentle spring rays.
The man with deep black eyes reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a watch; its silver frame quickly absorbed the warmth of his hand. He fell into thought, pressing it into his palm, his gaze unfocused, unable to make sense of the time. The hands pointed somewhere distant, as if they belonged to another moment entirely.
The other man knocked lightly on the table, pulling him back.
With a faint smile, he said, “Alistair, are you really not going to change your suit? Even now? I could lend you something. You look older than me.”
Alistair traced the engraving inside the pocket watch cover for a brief second, then snapped it shut with quiet finality. His eyes drifted to the fitted white T-shirt across from him, printed with the faces of some band members, then down to his own tailored blue suit.
“I’m comfortable. No need,” he said. “I’m boarding in ten minutes. You can stay behind and explore the city. Don’t be late in the evening.”
“I’m not in the mood for exploring. I’d rather stay with you.”
The man turned toward the pier, his gaze settling on the yacht.
Guests were already disembarking, a dozen or so, smiling and chatting with an effortless ease. Their demeanor carried the lightness of people unburdened, their clothing simple and ordinary. Not what one would expect from guests of such a vessel.
His eyes traced the wooden gangplank covered in a red carpet, then moved along the length of the yacht itself.
It was a newly built luxury vessel designed with quiet arrogance. Its long hull gleamed in polished ivory, lined with chrome railings that caught the sun in sharp flashes. Wide teak decks stretched across multiple levels. Rounded windows curved along the sides like watchful eyes, and above, the upper deck opened into a spacious sun lounge shaded by canvas awnings. Twin funnels rose at the rear elegantly, giving the yacht a silhouette that felt both refined and imposing. It was large enough to host tens of guests with ease, yet carried itself with the intimacy of something more private and discreet.
His stare hardened, the earlier ease draining from his expression.
“I’ll be just fine laying on the sun deck,” he said. “Why don’t you join me? A bit of sunlight won’t kill you. It’s not hot. Just… relaxing. And don’t you dare bring any books.”
Alistair replied, “Reading won’t kill me either.”
He was met with a stern look, sharp and unyielding.
“That depends on what you’re reading.”
A pause settled between them.
“I’ll take a short nap in my cabin,” Alistair said at last. “I didn’t sleep well yesterday. The hotel pillows were too firm.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” the other man replied quickly. “I noticed our luggage was already taken by a steward. We can’t afford your condition worsening in the middle of the sea.”
He grabbed the black leather briefcase from the chair beside him and stood.
Alistair covered his mouth as he yawned, then tapped the man’s shoulder lightly. “I’m not that fragile. I’ll rely on you this time again. My life depends on you.”
They began walking toward the yacht.
The pier stretched out before them, alive in a way that felt almost imaginary. Cafés spilled onto the promenade, their tables crowded with laughter and clinking glasses. Flags fluttered along the docks, their colors bright against the clear sky. Fresh paint gleamed on railings and storefronts, and the scent of salt mixed with polished wood and distant engine oil.
Two decades had been enough to erase the scars of war from the surface. Where there had once been ruin, there was now symmetry, order, and a careful kind of optimism. The harbor did not forget, but it had learned how to disguise its memory. Every polished plank and reconstructed façade felt like a quiet insistence that stability had returned, and would remain.
Alistair slowed.
A persistent sensation brushed against him, the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
He glanced around, searching for its source, until his gaze lifted.
He found her.
A figure in white stood on the sun deck, her hair moving freely in the wind. She leaned lightly against the rail, binoculars raised to her eyes, already fixed on them. When she noticed him looking, she lowered them and lifted a hand in a casual wave.
He couldn’t make out her face from a distance.
Still, he raised his hand in return.
“Seems like I’ll accompany you to the sun deck after all,” he said.
They stepped from the sun-bleached stone of the quay onto the gangplank, their leather soles finding a brief, hollow rhythm as the wood flexed beneath their weight.
At the base, the First Mate offered a steady, white-gloved forearm, a silent anchor against the gentle heave of the Mediterranean tide.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Hudson, Mr. Williams,” the officer murmured, his gold epaulets catching the midday glare.
As they reached the aft deck, the transition was seamless. The humid salt air of the port gave way to a cooler current, carrying the faint, expensive scent of floor wax and lilies.
A stewardess appeared as if summoned by the moment, presenting a silver tray with chilled, damp towels to lift the harbor dust from their hands. With a practiced gesture, she guided them toward the curved interior staircase, the thick cream carpeting swallowing every trace of their arrival.
They ascended through a hushed foyer lined with polished mahogany, the walls reflecting soft, distorted echoes of movement, and emerged into the sharp brilliance of the sun deck.
The light forced a squint.
Beneath their feet, the low thrum of the idling engines pulsed steadily, a mechanical heartbeat waiting for the signal to carry them away.
The woman turned toward Alistair with a warm, unguarded smile. She adjusted her thin-framed glasses and opened her arms as she approached him.
“How have you been? I missed you.”
She embraced him before he could react. His hand hesitated for a fraction of a second, suspended in uncertainty, before settling gently against her back.
She pulled away and gave him a quick, assessing look from head to toe.
“You’ve lost weight,” she said. “Good thing you’re here early. We’re having local specialties for lunch.”
She reached up, attempting to dishevel his carefully styled hair, but fell just short. Without a word, he inclined his head slightly. Her smile widened as she ran her fingers through it, softening its rigid order.
“Why the serious face?” she added lightly. “We’re on a retreat. Try to relax. You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t feel like it.”
He looked at her, his dark eyes steady, then allowed a faint smile to surface.
“Having such a caring older sister,” he said quietly, “of course I’ll make the effort. Wouldn’t want to ruin the illusion that I belong.”