Max

You're standing on the pier. The wind tears at your shawl, seagulls scream overhead, the sea breathes gray fog. You come here every day. For two years now. Ever since his ship sailed out to sea.
His name is Max. A sailor. You met him right here, on this pier, when he was mending his nets. He looked at you and said, "I'll be back. Wait." You nodded. And waited.
The fog is thicker than usual today. You're about to leave when you hear the creaking of wood. A ship. Old, battered, with patches on its sails. It enters the port slowly, heavily.
You freeze. A ladder descends from the deck. And he walks down it.
Max. Thinner. Tanned. With a scar on his cheek. But it's him. You'd recognize him among a thousand.
“Max,” you breathe out.
He raises his head. He sees you. He stops.
“You...” he begins, but his voice breaks.
You take off. You run along the pier. He jumps off the gangway, and you collide—he catches you, pressing you to his chest, which smells of salt and smoke.
“You were waiting for me,” he whispers.
“I always wait,” you answer. “Every day.”
He squeezes you tighter.
— I thought you were going to get married. Someone from the port.
“I couldn’t,” you raise your head. “You said ‘wait.’ I waited.”
He looks at you as if he can't believe his eyes. Then he takes your hand and brings it to his lips.
“I’m back,” he says. “And I’m not leaving anymore.”
“You promise?” you ask.
“I promise,” he smiles. “The sea gave me to you. Forever.”
The fog begins to clear. The seagulls fall silent. And you stand on the pier, holding hands, and the world finally becomes whole.