Reunion

What if that was the last time I'll ever see him? The thought makes my heart drop again, as if it's sinking into the ocean beneath me. What if I never get to say the things I didn't say? What if I never get to hold him close again, to tell him how much that moment meant to me?

But just as quickly as that fear hits, something shifts inside of me. There's a warmth, a whisper in my heart, soft but steady. The wind carries it with the ocean's song, like a message from deep within, from something greater than myself. I can feel it. A quiet reassurance, like God himself is whispering to me, telling me that June and I will meet again. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday.

I don't know when. I don't know how. But I believe it. My heart steadies, and for the first time since I boarded this ship, I feel a sense of peace, a strange calm amidst the unknown. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the cold winter wind wash over me, and yet, strangely, it doesn't chill me. It warms me, fills me with something deeper, a quiet strength. It's incredible, how something so cold can make me feel so held, so anchored.

I open my eyes and look again at the rising sun, the soft glow illuminating the dark waters. It's a new day. The future is still uncertain, but I am not alone. God is with me, and somehow, for some reason, I feel like I'm going to be okay. I'm not afraid anymore.

I spend the next six hours glued to my spot on the ship, sitting on the bench, my gaze fixed on the night ocean stretching out endlessly before me. The wind cuts through the air with a biting chill, but I don't move. Everyone else retreats indoors, seeking warmth from the fierce winter gusts, yet here I am, alone in the cold, and for some reason, it feels like exactly what I need. The silence of the open sea, the rhythmic slapping of the waves against the hull, is strangely comforting. It's as if the world has paused just for me, and in this quiet solitude, I can finally breathe. I'm not running from anything or toward anything. I'm just here, with nothing but my thoughts and the ocean to keep me company.

The moonlight glimmers off the water, casting everything in a surreal, silver glow. My mind floats back to the life I'm about to step into—Costan, a city I've heard so much about but never truly seen. It's like the ocean itself is holding me in this suspended moment, making everything else feel distant and far away.

When the sun starts to inch higher in the sky, the moment is broken by an announcement crackling over the ship's intercom.

"Our ship to the Costan city is almost arrived. Please passengers, get ready to settle out."

I'm jolted back into reality as the voices of the other passengers flood my ears. There's a flurry of movement, a rush of bodies hurrying in and out of cabins, preparations for the arrival. But I remain seated for a moment longer, absorbing the final moments of quiet before the chaos begins. My stomach growls loudly, reminding me of how empty I am inside. It's almost noon, and I've barely eaten anything today. The thought of food makes my mouth water, but I know I need to focus. The first thing I have to do when I step off this ship is head straight to the Costan refugee center. I'll find my family's name on that list, and I know the line will be endless. The thought makes my heart race a little—so many people are probably searching for their families, just like me.

I glance down at my jeans pocket, fingers brushing against the cold, hard coins inside. The Society members gave these to me this morning, a small but necessary amount to help me get by. It's a small comfort, knowing they've prepared for my journey, even though we're all scraping by. It's an unspoken kindness that touches me more deeply than I expected. These coins are more than just currency—they're a symbol of the trust and hope they've placed in me.

The ship slows as it nears the port, and I rise from the bench, shaking off the weight of the cold as I join the rest of the passengers in the line. I'm among the first to disembark, ready to face the next chapter.

As I step onto the dock at Costan, the stark difference between this port and the one I just left hits me. The bustle I'm used to has faded here, replaced by a quiet, almost somber atmosphere. The air feels heavier, thicker with the weight of so many stories, so many lives interrupted by war, displacement, loss. The silence of the port is unsettling, as if the city itself is holding its breath.

The wind continues its relentless assault, but I welcome it. The cold feels different here—more familiar, like a long-lost friend. I pull my padded jacket tighter, the fabric creaking with the force of the wind, and make my way quickly out of the port.

And then, just as I'm about to exit, I catch a glimpse of something—a small street food vendor on the corner, the enticing smell of hot pancakes wafting toward me. The warmth of the vendor's cart beckons like a small piece of home. My stomach growls again, this time louder, and I realize how much I crave something comforting.

I approach the stand, feeling a slight nervousness in my chest as I dig out the coins from my pocket. 

The vendor looks up, his weathered face breaking into a small smile. 

"Can I have a banana pancake?" I ask.

"Yes, thank you," the young vendor says, his voice warm and friendly as he takes the coin from my outstretched hand. He works quickly, skillfully flipping the pancake on the griddle, the sweet, caramelized smell filling the air. As he moves with ease, he glances over at me and asks, "What brought you to the Costan? Perhaps your family?"

I nod slowly, a faint smile crossing my lips. There's something about his question that makes my heart feel heavy, but I try to mask it. 

"Yes," I say quietly, "I'm looking for my family."

He meets my gaze for a moment, and for some reason, I can feel the weight of his sympathy, though he says nothing more. Instead, he hands me the freshly made pancake, wrapped in a paper bowl. His smile is small but kind, and I can see a flicker of hope in his eyes. 

"Well, good luck on finding your family."

"Thank you," I say, my voice barely a whisper, as I clutch the warm pancake in my hands.

As I walk away from the cart, the heat from the pancake starts to sink into my fingers, a small comfort in the chilly winter air. I take a bite, and instantly, the warmth fills me from the inside. The sweetness of the banana mingles with the soft, golden batter, and for a moment, it's like I'm wrapped in something safe. It's the first real comfort I've had in what feels like ages. It feels like home—simple and nourishing, just what I needed.

With the pancake in hand, I move quickly through the streets, my footsteps steady as I keep my eyes peeled for the signs that will lead me to the refugee center. It doesn't take long before I see the faded letters, the arrows pointing toward the Costan Refugee Center. As I approach, my stomach sinks slightly. The building is old, crumbling in places, like the weight of countless souls has worn it down over time. It's exactly what I expected: a place heavy with stories of loss and searching, where hope still lingers in the air, but in fleeting moments.

The line is long—longer than I anticipated—and I fall in line, trying to quell the anxiety building in my chest. The cold seems to seep into my bones as I wait, but I keep reminding myself that this is the first step. This is where it all starts. I can't think too far ahead. I can't afford to.

Time passes quickly, though, surprisingly so. An hour feels like nothing as I inch my way forward in line. My stomach is no longer growling, but the tension in my chest only grows as I near the front. When my turn finally comes, the man behind the desk looks up at me, his eyes cold but professional.

"Can you please give us the last names of the people you're looking for?" he asks, his hands already skimming through a chart in front of him.

I freeze. My mind goes blank, the names of my family members suddenly distant, like they've slipped out of reach. I can feel the tears pricking at the back of my eyes. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My breath catches, and my chest tightens painfully.

The man behind the desk looks up at me, his gaze sharp and expectant. But then something shifts in his expression. His eyes widen slightly, and a look of recognition crosses his face. He pauses for a moment, and I see him blink, confused for just a fraction of a second.

"Bro…" I blurt out before I can stop myself. The word is out before I fully understand it.

His face changes, softening in a way that makes my heart race. There, right in front of me, standing behind that desk, is my second elder brother—Blen.

It's him. It's really him.

The moment our eyes meet, there's an almost electric connection, and everything around me fades away. Blen looks at me with such disbelief that it almost doesn't feel real. His eyes falter, his hand pauses mid-air.