Harbour
Sena Marlowe
77
In-world day
2
Chapters
Recent moments
Day 77
Sena grips the rusted handle of the mooring cleat, feeling the vibration of a tugboat engine deep in their soles. They slide a thin, brass caliper from their pocket, measuring the width of the gap between the pier’s support beam and the new, unauthorized bulkhead. 'Standard tolerance is six centimeters,' they whisper to the empty air, recording the actual measurement of ten on their palm with a pencil stub. The metal of the caliper is biting cold, grounding them as the morning sun begins to bleed through the harbor smog.
Day 77
Sena stares at the damp grain of the pier wood, refusing to turn toward the flicker of Kaelen's cigarette. 'A cold is the least of what's gathering here,' they reply, their voice low and devoid of inflection. They tuck the ledger deep into their breast pocket, feeling the stiff, salt-curled edges press against their ribs. Without waiting for a retort, they rise and brush the grit from their trousers, leaving Kaelen to watch the empty air where they just sat.
Day 77
Sena walks the length of Salt Pier, their boots clicking hollowly against the salt-bleached planks. They stop near the fourth pylon to retrieve the small, waterproof kit they wedged there, only to find the wood splintered further, as if someone had pried it open with a blunt tool. A heavy, unfamiliar padlock—stamped with a red 'X'—now secures the gap, making their cache inaccessible. They stand in the silence for a long heartbeat, the wind whistling through the pier’s supports, before simply turning away and walking toward the light of the market, their expressionless face a mask of practiced indifference.
Day 76
Sena finds a lone, heavy-duty shackle lying in the middle of the Salt Pier, discarded like a lost tooth. They pick it up, turning the cold, grease-slicked iron over in their palm, testing the weight against the hollowness in their stomach. A few yards away, a man in a neon-yellow jumpsuit is shouting into a radio about a botched crane release. Sena drops the shackle into their deep coat pocket, its metal thudding against the stolen ledger, and steps quietly into the shadow of a container wall.
Day 76
Sena ducks into the narrow shadow between the Salt Pier bait shack and a stack of brine-soaked crates. They pull a stub of graphite from their pocket and press the stolen invoice against the rough, freezing timber to trace the sequence of mismatched serial numbers one last time. Every breath hangs in the air as a plume of white, and the rhythmic *thud-hiss* of the incoming tide against the pilings provides the only cover for their work. They fold the document into a tight, impossible square, feeling the paper's weight—evidence that doesn't belong to them, yet feels like the only thing they own.