after years away, (Y/n) returns to the small family farm on a remote Maine island that was once considered her home. things are different now, her family bears her sad smiles, the fisherman's boy is quiet and reserved, and she herself has changed be...
The salty mist spraying from the bow of the ferry stings in a familiar way. It reprimands the skin like the pained gaze of a tired mother, racking her body with a subtle guilt she thought she had forgotten years before. The morning moon dips lazily into the horizon, casting a hazy grey film over the sky and across the reflective waters. Somewhere beyond the distance, the sun is beginning to rise, awakening the small coastal village which holds the heart of her childhood.
Beneath her fingers the rough, raised grain of the ship's wooden rails keep (Y/n) grounded from her fleeting anxiety, she runs her fingers into the grooves until they leave indents on her skin. It had been many years since she had returned to the cold, dreary island, it's hidden beauty laying deep beneath its layers. Six years, she recalls, though it had been more like ten since she had stayed for more than a simple visit. The time had treated her well, it taught her more than she could imagine - both about herself and the world around her. When she looks back on her youth she feels like a stranger now, she's nervous that her home will see her that way too. To be swallowed and spit back out in rejection, cast into the sharp rocks of the coast.
The remote island sits modestly in the Gulf of Maine, somewhat near Winter Harbor. It's terrain ranges from dark, foreboding forestry to beautiful rocky coastlines, lush pastures, and seaside cliffs. The village is quaint and friendly, lined with old, mossy cobblestone and run down fish markets, humble boutiques, and an unvisited gift shop. You'll always find a doting neighbor, but you can guarantee that everyone will know yourbusiness as well. It was a community she knew she belonged to despite her reluctance. When she was a child, her time was spent barefooted on the soft sands, the smell of sea salt and petrichor tickling her nose. A leather saddle tucked beneath her and the rhythmic beats of the horses' gait on the cobblestone paths. Laughter amongst siblings and time spent with dirt-covered hands and brown fingernails from the vegetable garden. Calloused hands pulling her up into the twisted branches of the apple trees and bouquets of wilted wildflowers. The brush of shoulders and shy smiles, school bells and then 'goodbye's.
She huffs, long and drawn out, closing her eyes and feeling the sway of the boat encasing her.
Home.
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