The Island Mist

By DJ Atkinson

The ferry waited in the fog like a held breath.

Water and sky had agreed to forget each other, leaving only this narrow truth: a hull, a line of dock, the quiet confidence of engines not yet asked to speak.

Nothing ahead could be named.

The island was there—or it wasn’t—but faith filled the space where sight failed.

That was the bargain: step aboard without proof, carry your small nervous joy like a ticket folded warm in your pocket.

Fog makes room for feeling. It takes away distance, gives back attention.

Every sound matters. 

Every pause means something.

The crossing becomes less about arrival than trust.

And so we went—into the white, into the unpromised—held by water that knew the way even when we did not.

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