The Last Ferry

Daniel stood at the edge of the dock, watching the ferry disappear into the fog. He had overslept. Again. The island of Hydra had no cars, no motorbikes — just cobblestone paths, donkeys, and boats. And now, no way back to Athens until morning. His flight home left at seven a.m. He sat down on a wooden bench and opened his wallet. Forty euros, a useless return ticket, and a loyalty card for a coffee shop in Edinburgh that he'd never actually filled up. "Missed it too?" A woman with a large canvas bag and paint-stained fingers sat down beside him. She didn't look panicked. She looked almost pleased. "I missed it on purpose," she said, noticing his expression. "I do it every September. One more night here does something good for the soul." Daniel stared at her. "I have a flight." "Can you change it?" He pulled out his phone and checked. For thirty euros, yes — he could push it to the afternoon. He'd lose a half-day of work. His manager would send three passive-aggressive emails. He looked out at the water. The fog had turned golden in the late afternoon light. Somewhere up the hill, a church bell rang slowly, as if it had nowhere to be. "There's a taverna near the windmills," the woman said, standing up. "The octopus is extraordinary. I'm Elena, by the way." Daniel looked at his phone, then at the glowing hillside, then back at his phone. He bought the new ticket. "I'm Daniel," he said, catching up. "And I've never actually eaten octopus." Elena smiled. "Tonight you will."