The first frost has come, but it has not brought you. Woodsmoke laces itself around the chimneys in the huddle of cottages above the shore. The fishing fleet is in, but Roving Boy is not tied up with the others.The fog rolls in, a grey wall. The mountains have vanished into the sky. The cry of an unseen seabird slices through the air.
The kitchen awaits your return with the old table ready for supper to be served. In the porch, your coat hook is empty and the black boots, tucked tight under the stool are gone. Your loud laugh is missing from the house along with the smell of your roll ups, which you said you would smoke outside but never do. I miss your arms which hold me close in the bed with the brass frame. The sheets still smell of you.
I leave the warm hearth to check the harbour again. I inch down the narrow stone steps, helped by the ancient rope attached to the rock with rusty hoops. The sea below whips itself up into a frenzy of water which meets itself and bounces off in all directions. I lick the salt on my lips. The foghorn sounds its low melancholic wail. Here, at the edge of the world I stand alone.
I feel for the unfamiliar gold band on my finger and twist it around, three times for luck. I sweep wet tendrils of hair from my face, wrap my coat tighter. I will wait for you.
I peer out to where the sea merges with the fog in the impenetrable half-light. You are out there. You will come home to me through the black storm, the billowing waters and ragged waves, because you have promised.
June Gemmell is an editor for Loft Books anthologies. Her short stories have been published by Gutter Magazine, Loft Books, Northern Gravy and the Edinburgh Literary Salon, also Short Story Today and Yorick Radio Productions podcasts. She is working on two novels, one adult and one for children.
You can find her on X @june_gemmell
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