[Fiction] by Daniel Mahoney

Fiction

By Daniel Mahoney

The pier stretched into the sea like a broken promise, shrouded in morning fog.

Everything was gray. The ocean, the clouds, her thoughts. One vast canvas of stillness and sorrow. The wooden boards creaked softly beneath her steps as she moved toward the end, her wool coat clutched tight against the salt-heavy wind.

In her gloved hands, she held a dented thermos and two tin cups, as she had every year for the past nine.

He would come. He always did.

She settled on the uneven bench, her eyes fixed on the water below. The world was hushed—only the crashing surf and a distant gull broke the silence, as if the air itself were holding its breath.

“You’re early,” came a voice, warm and familiar.

Her heart fluttered. She turned slowly.

There he stood—hands in the pockets of his old coat, the one patched at the elbows, threadbare and unchanged. His hair tousled, his smile faint and weary. Just as she remembered.

“You’re late,” she replied, a smile catching at the corners of her mouth.

He moved beside her and sat, accepting the cup she poured. The steam from the coffee rose between them, laced with cinnamon and memory.

“I took the long way,” he said. “The trees were turning. You’d have loved it.”

She nodded, eyes drifting back to the sea. “I always did.”

They drank in silence, watching the fog twist and gather around them. It felt like a third presence—unseen, patient. Listening.

He glanced at the lighthouse. “Looks smaller than I remember.”

She gave him a tired smile. “Maybe we’ve just grown.”

He flinched slightly. A pause.

“I passed a boy on the road,” he said quietly. “Playing with a red truck. Just like—”

“Don’t,” she murmured.

He bowed his head. “Sorry.”

The silence that followed was familiar. Not comfortable but known.

“You remember that day?” she asked softly. “The sky looked just like this. You said we’d beat the storm.”

His hands tightened around the cup. Steam curled upward, disappearing into the fog.

“I was driving,” she said, her voice thin. “He fell asleep. I looked away for one second. Just one.”

He looked at her, pain dark in his eyes. “I know.”

She met his gaze, something trembling behind her expression. “Do you?”

The fog shifted, revealing a pale light beyond the rail.

“I used to scream your name in my sleep,” she said. “That first year, I came here and begged you to forgive me. But you just smiled. Like nothing had happened.”

He shook his head, brow furrowed. “I never blamed you.”

A soft, aching look crossed her face. “Yes, you did,” she said gently. “Not with words. But in the quiet. In how you stopped showing up—except here.”

Her hand brushed his. Cold meeting cold.

The fog curled around them like breath. Without spilling a drop, she poured the last of the coffee into his cup, even though he hadn’t touched the first.

“You don’t drink it,” she said quietly.

“I come here,” he said, “and I talk to you. And for a while, I get to forget that I’m alone.”

“I never meant to leave,” she whispered.

“I know.”

The silence between them was vast.

He closed his eyes. “He was already asleep. Peaceful. You were humming. I remember.”

“You remember the wrong things.”

“I remember the right things. The true things.”

“You should go,” she said softly.

He glanced at her, confused. “I just got here.”

“No,” she said, turning to face him fully. “You should go on.”

He looked at her then, really looked. “What else is there?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “A whole world beyond this fog?”

“I don’t want another world,” he said. “I want this one. The one where you’re still in it. You were the best part of my life,” he said. He looked at her intently. “You are. Even now.”

“You never left that car,” she said emphatically.

His hand stilled. The fog thickened.

He stared at her, as if trying to stitch the moment together with memories that no longer held shape. He remembered the laughter, the good years. The crash—the sirens, the blood—was smudged at the edges.

His expression softened. “I thought about not coming this year.”

Her gaze dropped to her gloves, now damp with sea mist. “But you always do.”

“I almost didn’t,” he said. “Maybe it’s time to stop…talking to ghosts.”

She blinked at him. The words surprised her. It was the first time he had come close to uncovering the truth. The fog eddied, revealing the dull gleam of wet boards and the slow churn of the sea beneath.

“Our son wasn’t the only one who died that day,” she whispered.

His jaw tightened. “Don’t do that.”

“You’re stuck. You haven’t changed. You still wear that same coat, still have me bring the same tin cups, like it’s a ritual. Like it’s all you have left.”

He looked down at the coffee, long since gone cold in his hands. “Maybe it is.”

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s what you’ve held on to.”

“It’s getting harder each day. You’d think it would get easier with time, but as the years pass, I feel buried in grief.” He looked at her, infinite sadness in his eyes. His tone was gentle but firm. “You know, I didn’t blame you. Nobody did.”

She stared at him. “Then why can’t you let it go?”

He turned the question over in his mind, the way a stone is turned in the surf, never finding a smooth answer. “Maybe…maybe I don’t want to.”

He said, voice barely above the wind, “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t mean to trap us in this cycle.”

She gave a small, dry laugh. “Intent doesn’t matter when the wreckage is the same.” She looked away, out toward the invisible horizon.

“I used to think these visits were for me. That if I just held on a little longer, if I just kept showing up…I'd fix something.”

“Fix what?” she asked.

He opened her mouth, closed it again. “You’re still carrying it,” he said gently.

She didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed on the water, on the soft churn of waves beneath. Her laugh was soft and dry. “It’s all I have left.”

He said gently, “Guilt is just another haunting.”

Her eyes flicked toward him, startled.

“I see it every time I come here,” he continued. “You think if you carry it long enough, it’ll mean something. That maybe it’s a fair trade.”

She looked down at her hands. The gloves were soaked through now. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” he said. “You don’t owe penance for loving your son. For driving through a storm. For being human.”

Her voice cracked. “But I made the mistake. I looked away. I thought I had time. I thought—”

“You thought you were safe. We both did.” He turned to her, voice raw. “I want you to stop punishing yourself. And I want you to stop coming here. To stop dragging yourself back into this fog.”

The wind picked up, sending her up in wisps.

She sighed heavily. Maybe he was right, maybe it was finally time to release him. To release herself.

“Do you remember the first time we took him to the museum, and he fell in love with the dinosaurs? How he wouldn’t let go of that silly green brontosaurus until he passed out?” she reminisced. The moist fog, the sea spray, and her salty tears mixed upon her forlorn face.

“Or the first time we took him to that silly pizza parlor,” he said, “and he was mesmerized by the animatronics?”

“I took that away from him…I took everything away from him.” The pain in her voice reverberated across the old wood pier and down into the swirling water below. The fog intensified, became claustrophobic.

“No,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “You gave him all of that. You gave us a life.”

She looked at him through the thickening fog, her lips trembling. “You really think I gave him a good life?”

He nodded, not as comfort—but as truth. “You loved him. That was always enough.”

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, something had softened. Not forgiveness, not quite—but something like rest.

The waves below rolled in a rhythm that no longer pulled at her. The wind eased.

She rose from the bench.

“I think this is the last time,” she said.

He stood, slowly. “Will I not see you again?”

She hesitated, then shook her head, the smallest smile touching her mouth. “Not here. You need to move on. We need to move on.”

A breeze passed through her. Not around—through. She looked down in disbelief. Then understanding dawned on her face. She smiled one last time.

He reached for her hand, but there was nothing to touch. Just the echo of warmth and memory.

“Thank you,” he heard drift across the pier.

The fog began to lift.

The thermos sat alone on the bench. One cup still full.

He turned toward the shore, where the lighthouse shimmered faintly in the distance.

And for the first time in nine years, he walked away toward a new beginning.

Bio: Daniel Mahoney writes stories about memory, longing, and the small hauntings of everyday life. He lives in the Pacific Northwest and finds inspiration in fog, silence, and the pull of the sea.