The pier was almost empty when they reached it.
The day had folded itself away, colour by colour, until only greys and blues remained. The lamps along the boards flickered on one by one, their light stretching thin across damp wood. The sea breathed steadily beneath them, patient and vast.
Willow walked with her hands tucked into the sleeves of her coat, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind. Michael kept pace beside her, close enough to feel without touching.
"This is where I come when I can't sleep," she said.
He glanced at her. "Does it help?"
"Sometimes," she replied. "It reminds me that things keep moving whether I do or not."
They stopped halfway down the pier. Gulls cried somewhere in the distance, sharp and lonely.
Michael rested his forearms on the railing, staring out at the dark water. "My mum used to say the sea tells the truth. You just have to listen long enough."
Willow smiled at that. "What does it say tonight?"
He considered. "That storms don't ask permission."
She laughed quietly, then sobered. "Neither do people."
The wind lifted her hair, dark strands brushing her face. She didn't move to fix it. For once, she didn't feel watched in a way that asked something of her.
"I used to think silence meant danger," she said suddenly. "Like something bad was about to happen."
Michael didn't interrupt. He didn't shift closer. He just listened.
"And now?" he asked gently.
"And now…" She searched for the words. "It feels like space. Like I can breathe inside it."
He nodded once. "That makes sense."
They stood there together, the space between them neither closing nor widening—simply existing.
When they turned back toward town, Willow realised something with a small, startling clarity:
She wasn't afraid of walking beside him.
Willow's Diary
The sea didn't shout tonight.
It just stayed.
And for the first time, I didn't mistake that for a warning.
Poem — Dusk
The pier does not promise
what waits at the end.
It only offers
boards beneath your feet
and water that does not lie.
Tonight,
that was enough.