The harbour was quiet that morning. The fishing boats had not yet gone out, and it's sails hung loose against the masts. A thin fog sat low on the water, the kind that smells faintly of salt and woodsmoke and the previous night's rain.

Mira stood at the end of the pier with her hands in her pockets. The gulls, which are usually so loud at this time of day, were silent. Somewhere behind her a door closed — softly, the way her mother used to close doors — and she did not turn around.

She watched the water lap against the wooden hull, slow and even, keeping time with a heart she could no longer hear