Tsukago and I followed the corridor toward the stern. The livestream was off. The corridor lights cast our shadows ahead of us, long and thin, stretching and shrinking as we passed each sconce. The carpet swallowed our footsteps, one after another, a quiet rhythm in the narrow space.
At the end of the corridor was a fire door. Its red paint was chipped at the edges, the metal beneath dull and dark. We pushed it open and stepped onto the open deck. The sound of the waves was louder than during the day, the ship cleaving through the water with a deep, rhythmic thud. The salt air hit my face, cold and sharp. Above, the sky was a deep, starless black, the moon hidden behind a thin layer of cloud.
Tsukago walked to the railing and set the squirrel on the wide handrail, facing the sea. The plush toy's fur ruffled in the wind.
"Lychee, look. The sea is gray-blue. You can't think it's beautiful. But I can."
The squirrel kept its bean-black eyes fixed on the water. The navigation lamps reflected in them, two small red points in the dark.
I stood beside her, my hands in my pockets. The sea wind lifted my hair, whipping strands across my face. The deck was empty. The only movement was the slow sway of the ship and the endless churn of the wake below. The water foamed white against the hull and then faded to black.
At the other end of the deck, near the stern capstan, stood a person.
A dark blue uniform, a white brimmed cap. He had his back to us. One hand held a phone pressed to his ear. The other hand was gripping the railing, his knuckles white. His shoulders were rigid with tension. His entire frame was like a bow drawn to its limit. The wind tugged at his uniform but he remained motionless.
The wind carried his voice over, broken and intermittent.
"Damn it. We trained them for three years, and they get poached for triple the pay."
The voice was loud, not directed at us, but at the person on the other end of the line. There was no anger in it, only the exhaustion of someone who's been hollowed out. Each word came out heavy, weighted down by months of the same fight.
"Now there's no one to run the machines at the factory. Orders have been backlogged for so long. What do you expect me to do."
He gripped the railing. The metal creaked faintly under his grip. The sound was small, almost swallowed by the wind, but it was there—a thin, high note of strain.
"Your HR department, all you know is to push, push, push. Where am I supposed to find someone for you? Marine engine repair isn't cabbage you can just pick from the ground."
"The ones who understand hydraulics don't know electronic control. The ones who know electronic control can't read the blueprints. The ones who can read blueprints are too scared to go down into the engine room. I need someone who can lead a team, not someone who's here to learn."
My footsteps slowed for a moment, but I kept walking. Tsukago heard it too. She kept her eyes forward and took the squirrel off the railing, cradling it in her arms. Her fingers curled around its small body, protective. The plush fabric was warm against her palms.
We kept walking. As we passed that crew member, he kept his back to us. His profile was sharp against the dark sea, the brim of his cap pulled low. The phone was still pressed to his ear, his mouth a tight line. The glow of the phone's screen cast a pale blue light on his jaw.
Tsukago leaned in. She kept her silence. She just tucked the squirrel into her pocket. The squirrel would feel no fear—it needed no one's protection. But she did.
Far away, the crew member hung up the phone. He took the phone from his ear. He looked down at it, his thumb pausing on the screen for a second. The phone slipped from his hand and fell to the deck. The clatter was swallowed by the wind. He bent down to pick it up, the movement very slow, as if that single movement had cost him all his strength.
——The slower the bend, the harder it is to straighten up again.
He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one out, and put it between his lips. The flame of the lighter flared once, illuminating his face. Around forty. Deep lines carved from the corners of his nose to his mouth. He took a drag. The red glow of the ember pulsed with his breathing, a tiny heartbeat in the dark. The smoke was torn apart by the wind before it could form a shape.
I turned around, my back against the railing, facing the ship's interior. The metal was cold through my dress. Tsukago turned too, standing shoulder to shoulder with me, looking at the faint light leaking from the fire door. The door's small window glowed a dim yellow, the only warm thing on the deck.
The red ember flared again. Then came footsteps, walking from the far end of the deck toward the interior. Getting closer. Passing us, they paused for an instant.
I raised my head and saw the crew member's face. In the faint light from the fire door, he glanced at us. His eyes were tired, the skin beneath them dark. He pushed open the door and went inside. The door swung shut behind him with a soft pneumatic hiss.
The fire door closed, shutting out the sea breeze and the sound of the waves. The sudden silence was broken only by the ship's engines, a low, steady thrum beneath our feet.
She looked at the now-closed fire door. The red paint at the edges of the door had already begun to peel and flake, the chips scattered across the deck like dried blood. One chip lay near her foot, curled at the edges.
She stuffed the squirrel back into her pocket. Its tail poked out, and she tucked it in with two fingers. The motion was quick and practiced.
We were the only ones left on this stretch of deck. The chill deepened, working its way through the fabric of our dresses. The sea stretched out before us, gray-blue and boundless. Somewhere out on the water, the ship's wake was churning up white foam, but from where we stood it was invisible. Only that low, endless churning sound could be heard, never stopping.
"Going back." I let go of her hand and turned toward the fire door. The handle was cold against my palm. She followed. The door closed softly behind us. The corridor lights were dim and yellow, a relief after the darkness of the deck. The air inside was warm and still.
She pushed open the door and walked in. I followed. The carpet swallowed our footsteps. The hum of the light tubes overhead was the only sound, steady and indifferent. We walked side by side down the long corridor, our shadows stretching ahead of us, merging and separating with each pool of light we passed. The door to our cabin was just ahead, a rectangle of darker shadow in the dim hallway.