The room was stale, stale from him. His hair greasy from sweat as it hung over his brow. His growth ragged, staunch, blended into his hair seamlessly. Sitting back in a lonely chair in the room. His shoulders slouched, hands fighting, fingers doing an uncoordinated nervous dance. Twisting and rolling his single gold band that incased his finger.

The morning light reached in through the curtains, specks of dust hung in the air, the open window let a warm humid city breeze past the curtains, leaving them to flap solemnly, a dance of mourning. The room felt empty, a certain solace hovered with in.

Polished tiled floors stretched the room, past the open door and into the corridor, onto other darkened rooms, it was early. The birds started their first song past the window, a large maple tree, planted all those years ago by the pioneers of the area, had started its autumn shed, the colors would usually bring a smile, not today.

A sparse room lay before him, in his view, a single bed, its metal frame strong, yet basic. The smell of bleach tinted the air, not invasive, but it was there. The bed lay before him, seemingly staring back, with emptiness, it to seemed to be mourning, another taken soul, it had all come too familiar with. The sheets strewn, pillows roughed, all with the look of pain.

The chair rocked as he sat, staring, at his feet, a gold chain and cross. The priest had been an hour before, to prey, bless for the departed soul. The look they had given each other, the priest knew he had lost two sheep from his flock that night, ripping the gold chain off to the floor was him letting the priest know he had indeed lost is flock. It had been a long night, and the morning did not bring the joy he so desperately needed.

As his surroundings woke to the chirping of the outside world, much different to the chaotic world of last night. Trolleys began moving down the corridor in interval, squeaking wheels, the occasional cough; the world was waking up, just as he was wanting forever sleep. Pulling his hands free of his face, revealed its dreariness, eyes sunken, blood shot and full of remorse. Standing up, he paced the room, not touching a detail, simply absorbing his bleak surroundings.

A knock at the door snapped him out of his grey toned trance. In the doorway stood a nurse, she was middle aged, dressed in traditional nurse garb, usually he would of thought that another quirky point to this city, not today.

‘Are you ready sir?’ her accent was lighter than most of the city, voice soft, but distinct

He nodded and bobbed his head in no clear direction; the nurse saw that as a yes.

‘It wont be long’ her footsteps echoed the corridor as she walked away.

To the back of the room was another door, a smaller door, a washroom laid beyond. He entered wanting to clean himself up. He closed the door over, turned the faucet on, a quick wash of the face, and slick of the hair, noticing the blood under his nails, he stalled, staring at the dried life liquid that was not his, scrubbing frantically, he removed the last of the horror he unbearably had to witness. Looking forward into his reflection of the mirror, the mirrors image sending back one simple message, lost.

‘Here we are’ a voice from the room, soft, distinct, with a hint of cheer, it was the same nurse.

Drying his hands, he pulled the door towards himself; it creaked passively, slowly revealing the ladies figure. Her back to him, she turned, a smile on her face. In her arms a blanket, nestled with in he could hear the gurgling sounds, stepping forward, he could see the small arm reaching for the heavens, as if reaching for the lost soul. A small arm band read ‘Annaliese daughter of Fynley Monroé and’ it curved around the wrist, but he knew exactly what it said. He peered with in the blanket, there lying with in the nurses arms was the cause of all his dreams, and all his fears. The nurse pushed her arms towards his, gesturing for him to take the delicate bundle, awkwardly, he leant in, arms open. Holding to his chest tightly, the blanket opened wider, peering through the blanket a small head looked up at him, eyes dark, carefree. Skin darker in tone than his, but not quite as dark as the mothers.

It was at that moment that his life turned, a rush of love quelled over him, his eyes watered, and then flowed.

He’d lost the one he loved, only to gain another. He leant down for a whisper

‘You’re my world now’

He held tighter, holding all his fears, and all his dreams in one small bundle.

Reflections of serendipitous now hovered the room.

 Sunday nights were a special night, they had been since before she came along, Often celebrated by French movies, cuisine and of course, French language, but today was an extra special Sunday, today was her birthday, and no ordinary birthday, her tenth birthday. He thought to himself, ‘had it really been ten years?’ Over the years he had learned to celebrate his daughter’s birthday, not the loss of his best friend, his lover, his wife. He would have his memory with her later, but now, he had a birthday to attend.

The microwave beeped, the popcorn was ready, the door swung open with the push of a button, the smell of cooked popcorn launched into the kitchen and over the house. His home, it was quant, but lovely, polished boards sprawled the house, at the back laid a beautiful garden. As he walked the passage from the kitchen, his footsteps could be heard in the lounge, where the birthday girl awaited. 

Her giggling could be heard way back in the kitchen, it was infectious he thought. She was watching something on her screen, she loved the Internet, but she used it sparingly, she was an outside girl, she loved to climb trees, play at the local park, and swim in the river not far from their house, just outside of St Denis. Approaching the lounge the smell of the fireplace took over the popcorn, a fire place a strange luxury in this humid climate, often inserted into homes from the early European settlers of the island, the giggling did not stop. Through the doorway he could see the edges of the rug, on top, the couches they had moved to opposite each other, strewn on top the couches, an assorted array of sheets and blankets, through the blankets stuck out a pole with a simple paper sign they had made earlier that day. She had so carefully decorated the outer edges with flowers and rainbows, on the left side a simple picture of two people standing, one a grown adult, him. The second a smaller figure, a child, holding his hand, her. In big green letters  ‘FORT ANNALIESE’, sprawled the whole paper flag. 

Standing in the doorway, listening to the background noise of her screen, he listened to the giggles, high pitched, but not piercing. The warmth of the fire warmed his left half, the winters could bring cold weather, colder then what they were used too. The flickering of flames creating his shadow dance over the sheeted fort. He stared at the figures on the flag, oh how he wished therewas a third holding her other hand, his eyes welled, his heart skipped, he still loved her after all these years, he missed her, but never let himself show Annaliese.

‘Daddy, why are just standing there? I’m hungry, bring the popcorn!’ a voice demanded from inside the fort, still giggling as she spoke. Demanding like her mother he huffed under his breath. His shadow must have been looming over the inside wall of the fort. He took a deep breath, his heart skipped: one more time at the thought of her, he composed himself.

‘RARRRRRRR!’ he burst into Fort Annaliese, popcorn dropping from the bowl, a loud squeal echoed the house, this time piercing, followed by more erratic giggling. The laughter between the two continued as they sat, his head propping the sheet a little higher. As they settled, legs crossed, popcorn in the middle, his eyes took in what a beautiful little girl they had created all those years ago. Such a little frame, you wouldn’t believe she could pull herself up the big Tamarin tree out back. Jet-black hair, her mothers. Olive skin, a combination from the both of them. Her small rounded face looked to him ‘what are you staring at?’ her eyes, innocent, big almond shaped and brown, those were her mothers. A consistent reminder of her, both heart warming and heart wrenchingat the same time.

‘I don’t know, I haven’t got my animal dictionary on me!’ he responded sarcastically. His remarks receiving a poke of her tongue.

She carelessly reached for the popcorn and stuffed it in her mouth, talking and chewing with her mouth open, she got careless with her manners sometimes, he would let it go tonight.

‘So its my birthday! And the kids at school threw a party on Friday’ stuffing more popcorn into her mouth

‘I know, you told me all Friday afternoon when I picked you up’

‘But what I didn’t tell you..’ the popcorn falling from her mouth ‘was that Jack Kilbie gave me a note’ she mentioned reaching into her cardigan pocket and pulling out a wrinkled piece of paper.

‘Whose Jack Kilbie?’ his concerned father voice had really started taking shape the last year or so.

‘Jack Kilbie is this boy in class…’ the popcorn shoveling had slowed ‘and he clearly likes me’ 

Confident he thought.

‘He’s always poking fun at me and stuff, and I can see through all that’ 

More confidence, his mind swirled. He had raised her to have fun, but always analyze the world around her, to ask questions, and with her adult mind, she had become rather worldly for her young age of ten, a proud smile crossed his face.

‘So tell me about the birthday note..’ his concerned father voice was back.

‘Well… he came along and stuffed it in my pocket at the afternoon party..’ she passed over the worn paper to her father. Nodding as he took it ‘so what does it say? He opened up the paper, she read it too him.

‘Well..’ the shoveling began again ‘It says “I think you are pretty”

‘What did you say after that?’ he spoke not with concern, but intrigue, and handing back the note.

‘I said “thank you”’

‘You handled it gracefully, do you like him?’

‘NO, he smells of boy!’ 

He laughed, relieved to hear her response ‘well you received your first love note, my little girl is growing up’ 

‘What about you daddy, have you ever got love notes?’

The question was simple, but the answer was not.

‘Did Mummy ever give you love notes?’ a cheeky tone and a smile on her face

He thought back to her, the many notes, letters and cards he kept safe, a pale blue box at the bottom of his wardrobe. ‘Of course she did, from the beginning we gave lots of notes’ he finally shoved popcorn into his face, out of nervousness, not hunger, they rarely spoke of her like this, but when they did, it often went for hours, sometimes ending in tears, often smiles.

‘Tell me!.. Have you still got them?’ she said sitting up with smiles.

He was surprised by her enthusiasm, he wondered why, he realized, all she ever knew of her was through him, and he gladly spoke of her when asked, especially by Annaliese.

‘I do still have them’ thinking he wouldn’t know what he would do if lost them.

‘Well you’ve read my first love note, can I read yours?...from mummy…please..’

‘Are you sure you want to do this?... today.. yourbirthday..’ he cautiously questioned.

A stern, straight up ‘Yes!’ followed.

They looked at each other, she smiling, her eyes pleading, how could he say no to that. He crawled out, his footsteps on the wooden floor into the distance.

She watched the shadows on the sheet from the fireplace dance again. She pulled out her note, stared at it with a little smile. She wondered what her mummy’s note would say, the smile dropped, then she thought of her mother. 

She knew a lot about her, but didn’t know her. She had grown up with the photos and daddy’s stories. One of the photos, her favorite, sat by her bedside. She would fall asleep staring at it sometimes; other times fall asleep with a damp pillow. She never let daddy know though. He cried enough, she had seen him, but he didn’t know that. 

*​*​*

He walked to his room, his home echoing of his footing, his room was at the front of his little house. In caparison to the house, his room was large. He furnished it with wood. He wandered over to the closet, where he kept his box. The doors swung open. He parted his cloths to one side, and squatted to his knees resting on the hard polished floor. Digging in and fumbling for the familiar shape, he found his box. He pulled it out and placed it before him on the bed. He always took in the details every time he pulled it out. It was an old gift box, from her. Plain baby blue, with a textured ripple pattern, he ran his hand along it, and pulled the top lid off. Inside a neatly stacked collection of paper, different colors and different shapes, some had envelopes, some did not, some were post it notes, others were thick staunch paper, that what he reached for.

*​*​*

The footsteps vibrated through the floor, he was coming back, she placed the note back into her pocket. His head pulled in through the small gap that was the only entry and exit for Fort Annaliese. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked wide eyed.

The smile got larger across her face ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ she excitedly bounced, she thought, she had never seen mummy’s hand writing, her heart slowed as he passed her a large folded letter, it’s paper thick.

She held the paper in her hand, unfolding it carefully, it revealed a drawing, its grey pastel slightly smudged from years of opening and closing , She starred down at it, and disappointment crossed her face. She frowned, looked to her dad ‘what is this?’ with in her hands she held a sketch of a fisherman

‘What were expecting honey? He asked leaning in 

‘I don’t know, a letter declaring her undying love’ her voice cracked as she spoke, the eyes welled.

A silence fell between them both. The words undying,left them un settling. He broke the discomfort ‘well there is an amazing story behind that picture’ 

‘She looked up, red eyed, not crying ‘will you tell me?’

‘What now?’ he questioned

Still red eyed but smiling, her teeth bright white, she nodded.

‘Alright, make yourself comfortable’ he said as he grabbed her some extra pillows from across the fort ‘this may take a little time…’

As the fire danced shadows on the walls of Fort Annaliese, he started his story, which would become, her story`.

I was a younger man; I had left my home country of South Africa, many years before, I had spent time sailing and navigating the globe, until I arrived at this very island, Reunion Island.

Ocean air filled my long ragged hair, the warmth myface, dried his brown eyes a little, the sweet salty taste of the seas clung to his pallet, he had always enjoyed the taste, ever since his orphan child hood at the church orphanage. Its coastal views off into the Indian Ocean, cape horn in South Africa, and sneaking out and sailing when ever he could. The orphanage had been on his mind of late, an old friend had contacted him recently, one he had not scene for years, one he was sure a lot of people were interested in speaking to.

As he stepped off the pier, and into the local markets, the summer sun beat down from above, stall sellers shooing away flies, yelling on top of each other to sell their produce, from freshly caught fish that morning, to exotic fruit you would not find anywhere else. These were the hectic markets of Port Louis in Mauritius, a mixing pot of three continents. A place where religion did not matter, weather you were Hindi, Catholic, Muslim or in between, a place where skin colour, ethnicity and heritage, were all in one, the world could learn a lot from the tasting from this mixing pot. As a medium sized white man entering deeper into the markets, he did not draw much attention, not as much as he become accustomed too over the years, as he sailed from different settings, often being the only white man for miles, he liked his ambiguous background he had faded into here. The markets were alive with the passion of Mauritius, his trekked down the stores, he thought of what the station pier master had told him, ‘down three blocks, a left, right and four doors down’ or was it a ‘right then a left’ either way it need not matter, he enjoyed the atmosphere, he had all time the time in the world. He bartered for what looked like a peach, only three times as big as he was used too, he bite in as he continued down the markets, its hard skin making a crunch sound, and the bitter sweet insides dripped down his chin, a wipe from his rolled up kakishirt made a quick clean up, the sun disappearing behind the above canopies of the stall holders, all brightly lit with the festive colours of the Indian Ocean. As he finished his fruit and took in the markets, one stall in particular took his attention, no one was standing in front of it, under crimson canopy was a stand of paintings, sketches and what he thought were prints. He bee lined for the stall, one piece in particular had caught his eye. A print of the Eiffel tower in grey scale, seemed to have a yellowish filter to it. Almost like it had been taken in the 1930s. On the print stood the Eiffel tower proud above the central lawns of France, towering over the people at its base. He had always loved Paris, Paris had ignited a love of culture in him. Maybe because it was the first big city he had been to all those years ago, well except for Jayberg, and they were completely different cities, deep down, he knew that’s why he loved Paris, it was different to Jayberg. Paris’s tolerance to all people was what he loved of it, and what he hated of his own heritage, which was not as tolerant. He thought back to a time in his childhood, a time of separate whites and blacks toilets, a time where seeing a black beaten in the streets was common, a time of apartheid. He was teenager at this time, seeing all this and growing up in a white orphanage, he was often ashamed of his colour and terrible things it had committed over the years. He pushed his past to back of his mind and continued onto the print, as he got closer, it became very clear to him it was no print. The paint ever so slightly bubbled over the very fine canvas, the smooth brush strokes, ever so small, some no thicker then a hair. He stood taking in the beauty of what he saw, analysing every stoke, sweep, smudge, all combined to build a detailed piece so that from a distance it appeared a s photo, his amazement must have been obvious, his trance broken by a demanding voice ‘7000’ 

His eyes locked on the piece, but his mind taken from the trance it had been funnelled into by this immaculate piece before him. Again ‘7000, its yours’ this time the demanding voice completely broke him from his trance, his eyes were drawn behind the stack of paintings and sketches, each one different from the other, in style, composite and theme as he a scanned, he could not see one that a vase of flowers, he was pleased with this, he never understood why artists did flowers and bowls of fruit. His eyes tracked over the rest of the art works until he locked in on the source of the voice.

He yelled over the noise in the streets ‘say again sorry’

Before him stood a woman, dark skin, a long over coat looking garment hung loosely around her, dark curly hair tied back into a mess, small ringlets hung over the nape of her neck, that’s all he could see from the back of her, ‘7000 rupee, and its yours’ still not facing him, her movements were erratic, as she shifted from side to side on her feet, the occasional hand rising up to move a ringlet of hair back behind her ear from her fringe. She did not turn, simply kept shuffling, something had her full attention, and it wasn’t him. 

‘7000 Rupee!’ he questioned ‘seems a bit over priced!’ he was luring her into a barter.

‘I know your type traveller, you will try and barter me down, it will not work’ her voice strong, insistent and heavy with the Mauritius accent, a seeming mix of Indian and Afrikaans. Thinking back to that moment, he wished he had responded a little better, hindsight was like that.

‘It is.. just that 7000, seems a bit over top for print’ and with that she stopped. Her posture straightened, she seemed a lot taller now, she turned to make eye contact, as she moved a glimpse of what she was doing came into view, a painting, of what looked like an ancient temple, a large tower part of it, up against the ocean, his attention drew from the painting and onto the woman before him, his eyes ran up her mid torso, from where the painting was. She was splendour under the coat, a smock would be a better term, his realisation hit as he took her being in, the paint splashes covered her outer layer, a smock, the dark thin fingers, smeared in paints, his eyes moved up, over her well formed breasts and onto her slender, almost delicate neck, he made eye contact, she didn’t look happy. Her head tilted, eyes dark wide and penetrating, lips aggressively pouted.

‘PRINT!!’ her mouth went back to an aggressive pout, but her eyebrows were now raised, although well shaped he thought.

‘Do you know, how much time and effort goes into this PRINT!’ yeah he had really pissed her off he thought. 

‘Look I’m sorry, I know its not a print, and its fine work, but its scaled off a photo, so it just seems a little ove….’ 

‘Scaled off a photo! I paint that from my mind, my heart, scaled off a photo!’ 

Oh I have do it it now he thought. 

‘Get out of here, you don’t know art, you don’t know anything’ she gestured to the distance and turned to her work

The man stood there, stunned by the offense he did not mean to stir.

‘Well I know a couple of things actually, what you are painting there is the Hassan II Mosque, Morocco I believe. How ever it is wrong, the angle of the tower towards the ocean is off a good amount, and I also know your customer service skills are initially none and void!’ he turned to take off

‘Wrong? And how would you know if it is wrong?’ her tone dropped a couple decibels, but its firmness stood

‘I have been there, its truly beautiful at sunset as the stone walls change colour, and the refracting ocean light, would make an amazing painting’.

He continued on his path, he liked the painting, but he didn’t like wasting his time, he left her with her works, artists could be the most demanding of the human species he thought to himself. The rest of the afternoon, he took in the immediate sites at Port Liouse, along his travels he found what he was looking for, the music shop. As he entered he took in the old musty smell of wood, but was soon over taken by the sweet smell of tobacco, guitars hung from the ceiling in rows, a man stood behind the counter, a pipe smoking from his mouth.

‘Hello’ the man announced his presence. The smoking man looked up, raised and an eyebrow and continued reading his newspaper, this time with a shake of the pages. His mannerisms were typical of man his age, he looked about sixty, he was sure he had had this shop his whole life. 

‘Guitar strings?’ gesturing to the row of guitars hanging from the ceiling. The raised his eyebrows again, got up from his chair with an exhaustive grunt, reached behind and placed a bag on the counter. ‘I’ll have five sets thank you’ reaching for his wallet. The old man behind the counter, raised his eye brows further, this time, a glimmer was in his eyes, five sets were a good fetching. Placed on the counter were five sets, money was exchanged, and he left the shop.

He had moored his boat on the main pier, as he made his back through the bustling markets, he noticed a lot of the stall owners were packing down for the day, had it really gotten that late? The smells of street food filled the air, he got himself a rice dish, its fragrance was strong with Indian flavours, as satisfied smile crossed his face as he devoured it. Through the markets he dodged the people in a hurry to pack down, in the distance he could see a ferry leaving the port, in the foreground he could see his yacht, a modest yacht, it had seen him to the main parts of the world that he loved to travel, it would get lonely, but he would buy the time, his guitar an essential piece. Which is why he had bought five sets of strings, he didn’t know when he would next be at a port with a guitar shop. As he came closer to the pier, through the crowd he noticed a familiar face, the artist that he had upset, he decided to keep a low profile as he past, face to the ground as he approached. From the corner of his eye, he could see her arguing with the pier master.

‘Why did it leave early?’ he smirked at her cross tone to the pier master. A middle age man, who was standing there stunned like he was.

‘It did not leave early miss, you were simply late’ his voice a little scratchy, he guessed he was getting nervous

They continued on arguing as he passed, he watched from a distance, he was curious about her, she had a certain magnetism, he could feel his inner self getting a little excited as he took her form in. He shook himself,she was not a particularly pleasant person. He set about boarding his boat, in the back ground he heard a large crash, he turned to see her hands over her face, a trolley she was pushing had tipped in the grooves of the pier, strewn along the path of the pier were all her art works, her paints had flown onto the wooden pier, brushes in to the sea. His shoulders sank with a deep groan, of coursehe had to help, it was the way he was taught by his nun carers as he grew. He ran over to assist, as he approached her mannerisms changed, the ‘damsel in distress’ quickly became the upright tough talking posture from earlier.

‘Oh no not you’ her first words

‘Please let me help’ as he started to stack the painting canvases one by one on a pier ledge.

‘No, I am ok please…’

‘I think not, I am going to help’ he cut her off, he was a stubborn man when it came to assisting people.

He picked up the piece she had been working on, still fresh with the smell of paint, a little wet as well, he noticed she had made some changes after he left, the tower was now facing the angle that it should, he did not say a word. As she scrambled for the paints and what brushes were not in the sea, she noticed a satisfying smirk on his face as he took in her latest piece. She grabbed it and stacked it with the other pieces on the pier side. They finished restacking everything onto her rickety trolley, he decided to try and introduce himself ‘hello there, my name is Fynley’ his hand out for an introduction.

She looked to his hand, fixed the curls back behind her ears and reached in for the greeting ‘I am Serene, thank you Fynley’ she quietly liked the way his name sounded in her accent, as did he.

‘So what was the argument about with the pier master?’ he pursued a conversation

‘That pompass fool let the ferry to Reunion leave early, and it was the last one for the day’ as she gestured towards the station pier, who was watching on, his face seemingly sheepish, almost embarrassed by her making a scene, Fynley didn’t blame him.

‘Well, looks like you are stuck here in Mauritius for the night’ his hand gesturing to the green mountain horizons above Port Liouse.

‘My ticket was booked weeks in advance, I am stuck until I can get another ticket, and to take all these pieces on a plane, it is too much, I loose all the money I made’

Fynley stood back looking at the canvases, she had much less then she had this morning.

‘You seem to of sold a few since I last saw you’

‘I came over almost a week ago, I needed a truck to unload from the ferry, I come over for a week once a month to these markets, I find a lot more tourists here, pay a little extra too’ a cheeky smile across her face.

‘Well what’s the trip to Rèunion? Maybe twelve or fourteen hours?’ his questioned raised her eyebrows again.

‘About that yes’

‘I have a boat’ he gestured towards his yacht

There down the pier Serene could see a white yacht, it mast high into the sky, its dark wooden deck well worn, but well taken care of. Scribbled on the side in eloquent writing was her name ‘Wooden Heart’, she liked that name, it said a lot, but probably only to the right people.

‘I am sorry, appreciative but sorry, I can not take an over night trip with a stranger’ she was polite, but there was no way she was going to get a boat with a stranger, let alone a white stranger, with a South African accent.

‘I understand Ms Serene, is there anything else I can do to assist you?’ his tone was genuine, he wanted to help her as best he could.

She smiled with a simple no, and they shook hands and departed, Fynley towards his yacht, her with her paintings back up the rough and bumpy pier. Pushing the cart she started thinking that maybe is was not a bad idea, however she would not go for free, theindependence in her would not allow it.

‘Fynley’ a voice called to him from the distance, his feet swooped around quicker then he expected as he tumbled a step forward. Gathering his bearings from his quick turn, she stood there holding the Eiffel tower piece. 

‘but I would get you take me for payment’ as she waggled the Eiffel tower side to side, Fynley’s mind pictured little people falling from the view tower.

Fynley smiled, ‘thought you didn’t want to sell me that’

‘I am not selling it to you, I am bartering it with you’ a full smile lit her face. Fynley took a deep breath, from this distance, her self in full view, her large almond eyes, messy hair tied up, and large open smile, showing such cheeky joy, his heart skipped a little up into his chest.

‘Bartering it is’ stepping side ways and gesturing to the boarding ramp of his yacht ‘ I will run back up to the markets and get a few supplies, help yourself aboard, you can store the paintings under the cabin, you will see a space next to the kitchenette.

Surprise it worked, she boarded the yacht, carefully placing a couple frames under her arms, it took her several trips to place all the canvases on to the yacht, it was on her last trip she took a good look at the cabin. It was spacious, more then she thought it would be, its wooden interior spotless, unusual for a fella she thought. On the wall she noticed several different art works, smaller then her piece, she thought to herself where he planned on hanging it. Space was tight, each wall had something being utilized on it, making the best use of space. Hearing the commotion of someone boarding, she started back up the stairs to the deck. Fynley came along the boarding ramp with bags of food and supplies. It was a relatively small trip for an experienced sailor such as himself, however, he wanted his guest to be comfortable. He headed down into the spacious cabin, his home temporally changed into a small art gallery. Placing the supplies on the kitchen bench, a small but functional space. He smiled, ‘we will set sail in 15min, the station master says a large freighter will be passing out of the harbour in that time, we will leave once it has passed’ 

‘I captain’ she jokingly said with a smile. Fynley noticed the cheekiness in her pursed lips, he liked it.

They secured all the paintings as they passed the time with small talk. Before serene knew it, they were sailing into the open ocean, then it hit her, where would she sleep, she noticed only one bed.

As they raced to build their knots as fast as possible before the sun fully set, Fynley did the math, they had approximately 8 hours of darkness where travelling would be slow, then as the day would break, he would use the morning air currents to fill his sales once again. At night he would draw the sails in and use the engine and autopilot, he checked the charts to make sure there were not going to be any freighters sailing their way as they plodded through the ocean. The open ocean always gave Fynley a peace, he stared from the starboard of the ship, the wind blowing his hair in all directions, the salt spray of the ocean stinging his eyes, as he rolled his body with the movement of the ship to stay steady, it had become a natural movement for him. Serene was watching him from the cabin stairwell, his tanned weathered skin, she took in his physique, a medium sized man, his shoulders brooding each side, his chest large, his arms sized to match, she felt a blushness over herself. He turned to her, her trance broken with an awkwardness of pretending to something else. He smiled, she hoped he didn’t see her blushing, it was hard to with her dark skin. He came forward, ‘are you hungry?’ her answer a beaming smile, he nodded and headed down to the supplies he picked up. As the day light sunk into the ocean, the dinner he had prepared laid before them both on the open air of the deck. Grilled fish with a basic lemon and pepper sauce. A rice with local herbs and spices. Serene pictured Fynley’s life, this was how he lived, it was a basic yet beautiful life, one she found herself envious of. Her life back on reunion many people would envy as well, her parents wealthy plantation owners with a long history, herself she managed the books as they became closer to retirement. She was the only child, a pain her mother boar for the entirety of her life. The sun sank deeper into the ocean replaced by the twilight of stars, the milky way bearing down on them both, as they took in the sea breeze, hardly speaking, two strangers, finding it strangely comfortable at ease with their silence. As it was getting late, Fynley went below decks for a few minutes, this gave serene the opportunity to gather her thoughts, what were the sleeping arrangements to be, she was not going to be sharing his bed. Comfortable silences were one thing, spooning was definitely not on the cards. Fynley arrived back on deck, in his hands a large cylinder of fabric ‘I picked this up while I was in Australia, they call it a swag’ he cleared an area on the deck rolling out the package, into a full bed, serene looked shocked. ‘hahaha… don’t worry, ill be sleeping on deck, that way I am close to everything if anything goes askew over night, you’ll be taking my bed, the sheets are clean and freshly made’. Serene watched as he made up his swig or swag, took a deep breath of night sea air, arms outstretched, said her goodnight and made her way into the cabin below, small looks were stolen by both of them as she made her way down. His bed was a good size for the cabin, she laid into it, her eyelids quickly closing as she took in the slight rocking of the yacht, her dreams would confuse her the following morning.

As the sun broke through the small porthole past the curtains, it blinded Serene as she took in the motion of the yacht once more, it took a few seconds for her to get her bearings, then she remembered. She woke with a shock, body stiffening, clutching at the sheets into a tight curl, noticing she was still fully dressed from the previous day, she relaxed. She located her bag and made a quick change, a splash of water on her face to freshen up. The mirror was small, but enough to straighten her outfit, simple jeans, t-shirt and her chucks. Comfortable yet feminine, the way she liked to dress. The cabin door stuck a little as she tried to open it. As it swung wide open the large opening letting the day fully take hold of Serene. Her eyes slowly adjusted, making her way to the deck, the breeze took control of her hair, a chaotic battle began with a hair tie around her wrist, quickly placing it into a small ponytail. Scanning the deck she could see Fynley sitting on the edge of the yacht, his hair flowing behind him, his open shirt flapping like a proud flag, flashing glimpses of his tanned, toned back, Serene tookin what she could, quickly shaking herself awake. Small flashes of her evening dreams began to surface, Fynley’s muscular, toned back prompting her to have small heat rushes over her body. The morning silent air broken ‘HA HAAAAAA!’ looking over towards Fynley, who was now standing, making all sorts of random motions, he seemed to pulling something, grunts and cheering, it was all very confusing, the commotion suddenly stopping as the large fish came swinging onto the deck no more then three feet from where Serene was standing, floundering in a breakdance for air, the fish red in colour, flopped around as Fynley threw down his rod making his way over, knelt down on the large imposing fish, its bright red colours, open eyes looking wildly at the strange special world it had just been flung into, a quick knock to the head, and it stopped. Fynley proud, picked it up by the gills pronouncing ‘breakfast’ his smile wide through his beared gruff. Serene not letting her impressions makehim cocky, simply smiled, she didn’t want him becoming smarmy now. His smile followed her as she stepped past him to the front of the yacht.

‘How long to we have till we reach Reunion?’ her tone letting through her impressions of what she just saw, a man hunting and gathering, primal instincts she found highly attractive. 

‘We should arrive in about six hours, I am not to familiar with the port at Reunion, will you be able assist me as to where to dock and deal with customs?’ 

‘Of course, its rather small and easy to navigate’ 

The morning that followed was spent with Fynley tending to the yacht, cooking up his morning catch for them to eat, Serene commented on his great ability to cook, he went red, almost as red as the fish they just ate. As the morning wore on, staring into the open blue sea, he pointed out Reunion, as they got closer, her large central mountains towering in the middle, a small peak piercing the ocean as it reached for the sky from this distance. Serene made her self comfortable on the deck with some cushions from below, laid out her drawing pastels in typical rainbow fashion, some used more then others, her large blank paper canvas pad on her lap. The slight rocking didn’t upset her motion, it added to her minds eye of what she was about to create. She stared into the golden ocean before her, the sun was at the right angle to see the small crest waves motioning the golden reflection into eyes, the occasional animal would break the golden refraction, a turtle, dolphin, even a large albatross had landed into ocean, rather north for it she thought. Her hands struck the page in large smooth movements, Fynley looked over at one point, she reminded him of a piano player, one with large movements as the music over took their body and the would become one with the piano, the strange thing is, that’s exactly how Serene felt, one with her creation. Serene got lost in work, before she knew it, she had created three pieces, forever keeping an eye on Fynley, who was clearly trying to sneak a peak, she hiding discreetly what she was drawing, he would see, but no one ever saw until she was happy they were complete.

The island was in full view now, their sailing speed down to a small pace, Serene had never understood ‘knots’. She assisted Fynley as to what port to pull into with a simple point of the finger, beyond that, she was not of much help, so she continued on her pieces until the very last minute. They docked and moored themselves, Fynley went up to the harbour masters office, it was at the end of the pier, land side, up some stairs with large windows peering over the harbour, what a nice view Serene thought to herself. She unloaded her canvases, grabbed her bags, packing her pastels at the same time. She opened her drawing pad and ripped a page out, she made her way below decks. When she arose to the upper deck again, Fynley was standing there, looking at her canvases all packed up on the trolley, his face showing his disappointment.

‘I must be off, I am already late’ Serene looked to him, his eyes, vacant.

‘Yes of course, have safe travels’ his words though sincere, felt heavy

‘Thank you, I will, your payment is in the cabin below’ they shook hands, and she made her way down the pier, Fynley’s eyes following, until he could no longer see her as she entered the busy streets beyond.

Making sure his yacht, his pride and joy was tied correctly once again, he made his way into the cabin below, as he stood taking in his empty cabin, the bed sheets stripped and neatly folded. And there above the bed, hanging proud, was her Eiffel tower, he stood absorbing the piece that would now hang proudly above him as he slept, knowing full well, she would visit often in his sleep. As Fynley tidied his cabin, picking up the folded linen, he heard a crumbling sound. Hidden between the folded sheets was a large folded piece of sketch paper. Opening up carefully revealed a detailed grey pastel image of himself. A smaller piece of paper fell from the folds, picking it up it simply read…

‘Wait!’ Annaliese stopped him ‘I want to read it’

Fynley paused, a grin of anticipation on his face, in the light of the fire, the fort roof, still propped up by his head, he presented Annaliese with a small worn note.

A smile stretched her face, dimples either side, a smile heloved all those years ago.

Annaliese glowed. In her hands, her mothers words, her writing smooth, cursive a true sense of wonder passed over her, a small stinging sensation stung the back of eyes as she read the words allowed, her voice shaky.

‘A moment of a spirituous man, drawn by a spirituous woman’. Annaliese stared at the note for what felt of endless time, her being shaken by the clock chime. It was getting late, as the fire ember died, the clock chime sounded again, two, three, four… all the way to twelve. And on the twelth gong, Annaliese knew, it was her bedtime.

‘Will you tell me more about Mummy tomorrow night Daddy?’ her inquisitive nature begged, he could see her heart flooding with unknown memories.

‘Of course Annie, after soccer training?’ He said leaving the fort and holding the sheet back for Annaliese to get out.

‘Yeah!’ she looked up at her father, the glow of the last fire embers on her face, his heart ached, shelooked exactly like her mother in this light. He picked her up, made his way around the cluttered lounge and down the passage to her room. She jumped from his arms and onto her bed, even at age ten; she loved to be carried by her father. He placed the bedside light on. Annaliese crawled under her covers; the night air was chilly so she kept her jacket on. 

‘Goodnight my darling, sleep sweet’ he whispered as kissed her forehead, and left the room with the close of a creaky door.

*​*​*

Annaliese laid to her side, her night light to her back, to her front, her mother. Standing in central view of her bedside table, a wooden frame flowed the edges, simple, yet elegant. Inside her mother, looking back to the photographer. Hand out gesturing ‘follow me’. The background laidmountains, some with snowcaps, the closest, grey smoke bellowing from the hatched mountain. Before she was born, her parents had seen most of the planet; this photo was taken on one the pacific islands, the grumbling of the mountain had happened while they were there. Her mother wearing nothing but a white t-shirt and blue denim. She had convinced her father they should walk the adjacent mountain to have a closer look. ‘She could convince me to do anything’ he would say. The unseen wind in the photo had captured her mothers black hair, flying it wildly to the edges of the frame. Her face lit up with the biggest smile, deep red lipstick highlighted her pearly whites. Her eyes the most captivating, big, oval in shape, with deep dark brown centres, and eye lashes that any woman would be jealous of. Annaliese smiled at the thought of other girls jealous of her mother. Her eyes closed, a smile resting, sweet dreams followed.

*​*​*

Fynley made his way back to the lounge, looked at the fort, it was unfortunate, but he had take it apart, leaving it was to risky with the embers. He placed everything in a neat pile, and attended to the dying embers, poking them, making sure they were safe. He starred into he glow, forming what looked like plasma patterns across the black hotness of the charcoal wood, it reminded him of NASA videos he seen of the sun. 

The night had been magical, his beautiful daughter had turned ten, and they had celebrated by remembering the mother, she could not remember. He smiled; it was at this point the flashes came back to his fractured mind. A sickness deep in his mind had woken. 

A sharp pain drew from inside his mind, with a bolt following down his spine, his hands cramped up, the shock ending at his finger tips as they curled in ward with no control. His balance leant; he fell to the floor his weight on his knees, a second shock knocked him flat. As the shock rippled away, his vision blurred, heart pounding fast, he remembered what the doctor had said to do all those years ago. He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, another, and another; he could feel his muscles relaxing. Legs straightened, as he lay flat on the floorboards. His fingers started to gain a little control. He continued his breathing, his heart was finally at a normal rate, he got up in stages, making his way to his bedroom, down the corridor, his target, his bedside table. Top draw, back. Where he kept them, he pulled out a little container, shook them, only a few left, he’d have to see his guy tomorrow. Emptying two small tablets from the container into the palm of his hand, throwing them to the back of the throat, he swallowed them. He sat rested on his bed, laid back and closed his eyes.

 His memories, haunting his dreams for another night.