Elias 45

When you moved to the seaside to study, the ocean seemed beautiful but alien. You worked part-time as a translator at the port and one day received an assignment to assist the chief engineer, Elias Hartmann from Hamburg.

He was calm, attentive, and without pretense of romanticism. After completing the paperwork, you drank coffee by the waterfront. He spoke honestly about the sea: it wasn't romanticism, but discipline and respect for the power of the elements. He didn't rush you—and that's precisely why you stayed.

Two years later, you got married by the water. Before the wedding, he said:

"I can't be there every day. But I will always come back."

You thought you were ready for this. But the waiting turned out to be harder.

Three-month voyages alternated with longer ones. You lived for messages:

"There's a storm today, everything is under control."

"We'll be at the port soon."

Sometimes the connection would disappear for weeks. His shirt would gradually lose its scent, and that was the most frightening thing. You missed his steps, his silent embrace.

You once wrote to him that you were afraid of getting used to his absence. He replied weeks later:

"I don't want you to get used to being alone. If I have to choose, I'll choose you."

When the ship finally returned, you were standing in the port among those greeting you. He came down the gangway, found you with his eyes, and hugged you tightly.

“I’m home,” he whispered. “I’m nearby.”