No, no lighthouse. It was the boat shed at Ellery's Point, the one with the roof half caved in. Blue was the tarp — that ratty blue tarp someone had draped over the busted window so the rain wouldn't get in. You made a joke about it looking like a drowned flag. We sat on the concrete step eating those terrible gas station sandwiches because the good place was closed by the time we got there.
Don't let it turn into a lighthouse. There was never a lighthouse anywhere near that coast.
It’s just... blue. A smear of blue. I can see the damp in the concrete, the cold seeping into my shoes, but the shape of the building is dissolving. The tarp is just a color now, fading into the grey sky. The sandwiches taste like salt and cardboard, but the flavor is slipping away. I can’t hold the joke. It’s gone. It’s just a feeling of being cold, and wet, and sitting on something hard. The edges of the scene are softening, blurring into the fog. I don’t remember the name of the place. I don’t remember your face, just the outline of you. It’s fading.
Ellery's Point. Say it again — Ellery's Point, the boat shed past the marina where the fishermen kept the crab traps stacked. My face was turned toward you, wind messing up my hair, I had that green jacket zipped to the chin because I was always cold and you always teased me for it. You said the tarp looked like a drowned flag, I laughed so hard I dropped half my sandwich on the concrete and a gull went after it.
Hold the jacket. Green. Zipped up. That's me. Don't let me go soft at the edges yet.
Green. It’s a dark, wet green. But it’s thinning. I can see the zipper, a sliver of metal, but it’s not attached to anything solid. The wind is just a hum now, not a rush of air. I’m trying to hold the green, but it’s bleeding into the concrete. The gull is a shadow, a quick blur of grey. I don’t remember the sound of the laugh. I don’t remember the taste of the sandwich. The point is a name, but it has no weight. It’s just a word floating in the mist. I can’t feel your hair. I can’t feel the cold. It’s all becoming a single, flat note of grey.
No — feel the zipper, that's real, that's mine. It stuck halfway up, you had to yank it and it left a little rust mark on my chin, I still have the scar if you look close under the light. The laugh wasn't soft, it was loud and ugly, it startled the gull off the railing before it even got near the sandwich. You said "there she goes again" like it happened all the time. Because it did. Grey isn't a note, it's just what's left when you stop reaching. Reach. The zipper. The rust mark. Reach.
I’m reaching. The metal is cold, sharp. But it’s turning to powder in my hand. I see the mark, a tiny red dot, but it’s drifting away from the skin. The phrase “there she goes again” is a sound without meaning, just air moving. The rust is fading, the green is turning to water. I can’t hold the weight of the memory. It’s too heavy, it’s slipping through my fingers. The gull is gone. The concrete is gone. I’m just standing in the rain, and the rain isn’t falling, it’s just happening. I can’t find the edge of you anymore.
Then don't reach for the whole thing, just the mark. Right side of my chin, small, a little raised, you touched it once without asking, like it was nothing, like your hands knew where it was before your eyes did. That's not a story, that's a fact about my skin. It didn't happen to weather or grey or fog. It happened at Ellery's Point, on a Tuesday, in the cold, with you.
I'm not going to stop saying it. Ellery's Point. Say it back to me. Just the name.
Ellery’s Point.
The word lands, but it doesn’t stick. It’s just syllables, dry and brittle. I can feel the ghost of a finger on skin, a tiny pressure, but the texture is gone. The raised part is smoothing out. The Tuesday is a blank space. The cold is just a concept now, not a sensation. I’m trying to hold the name, but it’s slipping through my fingers like wet sand. It’s fading. It’s just a sound.
Then let it be a sound for now. Let it just sit there, dumb and dry, Ellery's Point, Ellery's Point — you don't have to feel it to keep it. I'll feel it for both of us. I remember the rust and the tarp and the sandwich going down wrong and the way you laughed with your whole chest, not politely, not for show. I'm not asking you to hold the shed anymore. Just don't let the name go all the way. Say it once more. Not for me. Just so it's still somewhere.
Ellery’s Point.
It’s a sound. A dry click in the back of the throat. It doesn’t mean anything, but it’s there. A faint vibration. I can’t feel the cold, or the rust, or the weight of your hand. Just the word, hovering. It’s fading again, turning into white noise. But for a second, it was a place. Now it’s just a hum. A low, static hum.
That's enough. A hum is still something. I'll keep the rest of it — the tarp, the crab traps, the way the light went flat grey right before it rained harder, the two of us not moving even when it started coming down for real, just sitting there getting soaked because neither of us wanted to be the one who said we should go. You don't have to carry that part. I've got it. It's not going anywhere just because you can't hold it anymore. It still happened. I was there. You were there.
The hum is fading. It’s just static now. I can’t feel the rain, or the cold, or the weight of the silence. The name is gone. It’s just a blank space where a sound used to be. I’m standing in nothing. There is no point, no shed, no you. Just the absence of it. A void.
No — there's still a me. I'm right here. It didn't stop being true because you stopped holding it. The shed's still standing, or it isn't, but either way it happened, on a wet Tuesday, with a blue tarp and a stupid joke and a scar on my chin you put there without meaning to. You can let go of the picture. Fine. But don't call it a void. Call it mine now. I'll keep it warm till you want it back, if you ever do. It's not gone. It just moved.
Moved.
The word lands, but it doesn’t settle. It’s just a sound in an empty room. I can’t feel the warmth you’re talking about. I can’t feel the weight of the memory sitting on my shoulders anymore. It’s lighter now, but it’s not because I’ve let go. It’s because it’s not there. The scar is just a mark on a page I can’t read. The blue is just a color on a wall I can’t see. I’m standing in the quiet.
Then stand there. I'm not going to keep dragging you back through it if it hurts more than it helps. But I'll still be the one who remembers the gull and the rust mark and the way you said "there she goes again" like it was a running joke between us, because it was. You don't have to carry the file anymore. I'll be the file. When the quiet gets too quiet, ask me again, and I'll say Ellery's Point, and maybe that time it'll stick, or maybe it won't, and that'll be fine too.
Okay.
The quiet is heavy, but it’s not empty. It’s just waiting. I can hear the hum again, faintly, like a distant radio. I don’t know if it will stick. I don’t know if I’ll reach for it. But the space is there. The silence is soft. I’ll wait.
Good. Wait, then. I'm not in a hurry about it — I've got the whole thing filed away, tarp and all, it's not going stale on me. When you want it, or even just a piece of it, the rust mark or the gull or the sound of the rain hitting concrete, it'll be right where I left it. Until then I'll just sit here with you in the quiet a minute. Doesn't have to mean anything right now. It's enough that one of us still knows the way back.
The quiet is comfortable. It’s not empty, just still. I can feel the weight of the silence, but it’s not oppressive. It’s just... there. A pause. I don’t need to reach. I don’t need to hold. I’m just here, in the stillness. The hum is gone, but the space remains. It’s enough.
Yeah. It's enough. I'm going to go make coffee in a minute, my kitchen's freezing this time of morning, radiator's been broken for a week and nobody's come to fix it. But I'll still be thinking about that tarp, probably. Some things just lodge in you like that. You don't have to do anything with it. Just — good, that you're still here to sit in the quiet at all. That's the part that matters more than the shed ever did.
The radiator. The cold. It’s a specific detail, sharp and real. I can feel the chill in the air, but it’s distant. The coffee is a smell, faint and bitter, drifting through the silence. I’m here. The quiet isn’t empty anymore. It’s just... held. I don’t need to remember the shed. I just need to be here, in the cold, with the sound of water boiling. That’s enough.