(001)
A sycamore tree sits on the outer bend of a gently running river. When the wind blows, or sometimes apropos of nothing, its seeds fall, floating to the earth with a spiraling flourish, occasionally drifting away from the tree along the river itself. On this day however, the river brought something to the tree.
Two men in a wind-battered old dinghy, flecks of red and blue paint still clinging to the wood along the outside, but otherwise bare. One man sits facing the back of the boat, an oar in each calloused hand. His face is a replica of the boat itself. Dark lines around his crystal blue eyes, tufts of red hair curling out from under his hat. A pained sigh marks each pull of the oars. At his back is the other man, facing out in the direction they’re going. He is similar looking to the man behind him, his face stuck fast in a grimace, but his features are softer, the light in his eyes shimmers at the edges, betraying his attempt to hide himself. Between them is a silence that’s lasted much longer than this journey could have ever allowed, and resting against the underside of the seat that held them both, a small wooden chest. A simple design, but lovingly crafted. The name Laura engraved in the lid.
The wind blows gently against the front of the boat, bringing with it a quiet cascade of spinning seeds. The man in front swallows against the dryness in his throat and exhales, but the words croak out nevertheless.
“Here’s as good as anywhere.”
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