The Last Ferry

My grandmother always said that the dead linger where they left unfinished business, but I never thought that would include a ferry crossing in the middle of a rain-soaked night. My name is Anya, and I grew up in a house that hummed with the presence of those who had passed. My mother saw her twin brother in the hallway mirror every October; my uncle heard his dead dog scratching at the back door for years. So when my father died, I expected something. A sign, a whisper, a cold spot in the living room. But there was nothing. Just silence, and the weight of all the words we never said.

My father, Viktor, was a man of few words and fewer smiles. He had been forced into an arranged marriage with my mother, a woman he barely knew, and he resented it. He did his duty: worked long hours at the textile factory, paid the bills, put food on the table. But he never tucked me in at night, never asked about my day, never even looked at me for more than a second. I grew up feeling like a ghost in my own home, invisible and forgotten. When he was diagnosed with stomach cancer in 2015, I felt a strange mix of pity and anger. We had less than a year together, but I didn’t know how to bridge the chasm between us. He died in 2016, in a small hospital in Colombo, and I was thousands of miles away in London, holding a phone to my ear as my mother’s voice cracked with grief. I didn’t cry. I felt empty, like I had lost a stranger.

Three years later, my mother asked me to return to Sri Lanka to help clear out my father’s belongings. She had remarried and wanted to sell the old house. I agreed, hoping to find some closure, some piece of him that would make me feel something. I flew into Colombo, and the humid air clung to my skin like a second layer. My mother met me at the airport, older and grayer, but with the same tired eyes. She handed me a worn envelope. ‘Your father left this for you,’ she said, her voice flat. I opened it to find a single ferry ticket, dated for the night of my father’s death, and a small map with a circled location: a tiny island off the southern coast called Kithal. There was no note, no explanation.

I had never heard of Kithal. My mother shrugged when I asked about it. ‘He used to go there sometimes, on his own. Said it was quiet.’ That night, I couldn’t sleep. The ticket seemed to burn a hole in my pocket. I decided to go, to see what had drawn my father to that remote place. I booked a seat on the last ferry, a rickety wooden boat that left at midnight. The sky was heavy with clouds, and a light drizzle began to fall as I boarded. The boat was nearly empty—just a few locals, a young couple, and an old man with a lantern who sat in the corner, muttering to himself.

I took a seat near the window, watching the lights of the mainland fade as we chugged into the dark sea. The engine rumbled, and the rain tapped a steady rhythm on the roof. After about half an hour, the ferryman announced that we would be making a brief stop at a small jetty to pick up a passenger. I looked out into the blackness and saw a figure standing on the wooden dock, drenched and holding a small, battered suitcase. As we drew closer, my heart stopped. It was my father. He looked exactly as he had on his deathbed: gaunt, pale, but somehow solid. He wore the same faded blue shirt he had worn the last time I saw him in the hospital.

I pressed my face against the glass, my breath fogging the window. The ferryman shouted, ‘No more room! Only one more! You!’ He pointed at me. I wanted to scream, to run, but my legs were frozen. The boat bumped against the jetty, and my father stepped on board. He didn’t look at me. He walked past the other passengers, who seemed not to notice him, and took a seat at the far end of the boat. The ferryman pulled away, and I sat there, my heart pounding so loud I thought it would drowned out the rain.

I spent the next hour staring at him, trying to convince myself I was dreaming. But he was real—I could see the water dripping from his hair, the way his fingers trembled as he clutched his suitcase. The old man with the lantern stood up and shuffled over to my father. He sat down beside him and began to speak in a low, soothing voice, as if consoling a child. I couldn’t hear the words, but my father nodded, and for the first time, I saw a tear slide down his cheek.

When the boat finally reached the island, the passengers disembarked one by one, but my father remained seated. I stayed too, hidden in shadow, watching as the ferryman approached him. ‘Time to go, Viktor,’ the ferryman said softly. My father looked up, his eyes hollow. ‘I’m not ready,’ he whispered. ‘I have to tell her.’ The ferryman glanced at me, as if he knew I was there, and then turned back to my father. ‘You had your chance. You have to accept it.’ But my father shook his head and stood up, his gaze locking onto mine. For the first time, he spoke to me, his voice dry as ash: ‘Anya, I’m sorry. I never knew how to love you. I was so afraid of being trapped, I pushed everyone away. But I see you now. I see you.’ He took a step toward me, and I felt a wave of cold air rush through me.

I woke up on the floor of my mother’s kitchen, the ferry ticket still clutched in my hand, but now it was faded and torn. My mother found me there, pale and shaking. She told me I had been asleep for a full day, that I had never left the house. But I knew what I had seen. Later, I searched for information about Kithal and discovered it was a tiny island that had been abandoned for decades, after a fire had killed several families. There was no ferry service to it anymore. The last ferry had run on the night my father died, and it had sunk, killing all on board.

Now, I don’t know if I really crossed over that night, or if my father’s spirit had been trying to reach me all along. But I know one thing: the dead don’t always leave in peace. Sometimes they wait, on a rainy jetty, for the chance to say the words they never dared to say. I only wish I had been brave enough to listen sooner.