Night Ferry
The last ferry crossed at eleven, and Hari, who worked the ticket window, had learned to read the passengers by how they stood at the rail. The tired ones faced the water. The happy ones faced the lights. The ones who had just said goodbye to someone faced both at once, and held on.
Tonight there was a girl of about nine asleep across three seats, shoes still on, a drawing clutched in her fist. When they docked, her father could not be found, and the boat emptied around her until only the girl, Hari and the slow breathing of the engine remained.
He did not wake her. He sat on the bench opposite with his thermos and watched the harbour lights break and re-form on the water like thoughts one cannot finish. In her sleep she smiled at something. He wondered what she was dreaming, and whether the dream had a boat in it, and whether the boat had a lantern, and whether a man stood at its window who had waited a long time for exactly this child.
The father came running at half past eleven, out of breath, apologising. “She’s never any trouble,” said Hari. “She’s been somewhere else.”
The girl opened her eyes, looked at the sea, and said, quite clearly, “It was a good crossing.”
Invented. No real person is described, and the story is not a portrait of anyone born under this sign.