Dawn arrived slowly over the SS Corregidor, not with sunlight but with whitening fog.

The sea beyond Petra de Alcaraz’s cabin window had disappeared entirely sometime before morning. In its place remained only pale vapor pressed against the glass like breath upon a mirror. The ship itself seemed suspended inside the cloud rather than water.

Petra preferred mornings before other passengers were fully awakened.

People wore fewer expressions than they were.

The corridors still smelled faintly of soap, damp wood, engine oil, and yesterday’s coffee. The stewards moved quietly. Doors opened cautiously. The entire vessel carried the intimate exhaustion of a temporary community.

She sat near the narrow cabin window with her notebook balanced carefully against her knee.

The page already began:

For Ladia, who would accuse this ship of containing too many dramatic strangers and not enough decent coffee.