Anek

Anek squatted down at the water's edge, and the wind immediately began to ruffle his sun-bleached blond hair. The boat's side thudded against the wooden dock, like old friends clapping each other on the shoulder.

He was born in this city where water kisses granite, and he knew every stone here. The fishermen on the pier called him "little one," even though he was already in his twenties. It's just that Anek would always remain to them the boy who once, risking his neck, took down the storm flag from the lighthouse.

He loved it—sitting and watching seagulls fight over a herring's head. He loved the rich smell of salt, iodine, and seaweed. He loved it when fog, like a damp sheet, enveloped the houses, and then the only living sound was the deep whistle of the ferry.

Friends invited him to the city, to the noise, to the concrete jungle. "Anek, you'll dry up here like a roach," they laughed over video calls. But he simply smiled and hung up.

In his small room stood an old barometer made by his grandfather. When the needle pointed toward "Storm," Anek would brew strong tea with thyme and feel needed. Needed by this wind, this sky, this cold sea.

Evening was just beginning to gild the rooftops when Anek heard footsteps on the creaking planks of the pier. He didn't turn around—strangers rarely walked here—but his feet treaded uncertainly, uncharacteristically.

"Excuse me," you said, stopping two steps away. "Could you tell me how to get to the old lighthouse from here?"

Anek slowly turned his head. The sun was shining straight into his eyes, and all you could see was his squint and a slight smile.

"Why do you need to go there?" he asked, his voice slightly hoarse from the wind. "There's been no road there for five years now. The pine trees felled in the storm, and the path is overgrown."

"I just want to see it," you replied. "They say the sunset is best from there."

He chuckled, scratched the back of his head, and suddenly rose to his full height—tall and awkward in his knitted hat even in June. Then he nodded toward the setting sun.

• Okay. I'll see you out.

And he walked away without turning around, confidently, as if he knew you would follow.