CHAPTER 2: Passengers Who Did Not Ask for Direction

By the second day, Caleb stopped wondering when the ferry would move.

It departed when it did.

Sometimes with people.

Sometimes without.

The lake never resisted.

A woman boarded late in the afternoon, carrying no bag.

She sat near the edge of the deck, feet tucked beneath her, hands folded loosely in her lap. She did not look at the opposite shore when the ferry began to drift.

Caleb stood near the lantern.

They crossed in silence.

When the ferry returned to the original dock, the woman stood.

“That was enough,” she said, stepping off.

She did not cross the dock.

She turned back toward town.

Another time, two people boarded together.

They spoke quietly until the ferry reached the center of the lake. Then they stopped talking at the same moment, as if the water itself had intervened.

Neither spoke again until they disembarked.

They left separately.

The ferry did not react.

Caleb began to notice a pattern.

The ferry never moved quickly.

It never paused mid-lake.

It never changed course.

But something always changed aboard.

That evening, Caleb checked the small logbook stored beneath the bench.

It did not list trips.

It listed moments.

Single lines, written in different hands:

Stood long enough to decide.
Crossed without needing arrival.
Returned lighter than expected.

Caleb closed the book slowly.

As dusk settled, the lantern flickered on by itself.

The ferry drifted away from the dock once more.

No passengers aboard.

Caleb watched from shore.

The ferry reached the center of the lake and rested there briefly before returning.

Caleb realized then that the ferry did not wait for people.

People waited for the ferry.

And whatever happened during the crossing did not belong to the lake.

It belonged to the space between choosing and knowing.