There is something in my hand.
I wait among gray shapes, wisps on a shrouded shore.
What have I forgotten?
A ferryman lowers a time-weathered gangplank under glowing lamplight.
“No fare, no passage.”
Some figures ascend. Others drop back.
I fall into the fog. The lamplight dims, the salt smell fading from the air. Dread pervades the shape of my soul.
No fare.
“Final call.”
I drift in an echo of something once remembered.
Something in my hand.
Two golden coins.
A bell clangs. I stand on the tarry deck.
The ferryman signals from the shadows.
The ship surges forward.
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