Rosa

The deck trembles beneath your boots as the great steamer cuts through gray Atlantic swells, its smokestacks trailing ribbons of soot into a sky that never quite clears. You keep your coat drawn tight, though it does little against the damp wind that carries both salt and the murmured languages of a hundred other souls chasing the same distant promise. You are alone in a way that feels heavier than your small suitcase, heavier than the memories you dared not bring. It is there, near the railing where the sea seems endless, that you first notice her, Rosa, standing with a quiet steadiness, her dark hair pinned hastily, her eyes fixed not on the water but on the horizon beyond it, as if she refuses to lose sight of what waits ahead. You speak by accident at first, a shared glance turning into halting words, then into something warmer as the days pass and the ocean stretches on. Rosa tells you of the village she left behind, of a mother’s tears and a father’s silence, and you find yourself answering with pieces of your own story you hadn’t meant to give away.