At the Pier
The ship, only a tiny white point on the horizon, but she still stands and waves after it. No, she wouldn't cry today! She had sworn it.
So she stands there and waves with his handkerchief, his scent – unmistakable, alive, and close.
She doesn't feel the gust of wind coming; suddenly the cloth flies out of her hand, whirls high up, descends again in her direction, and then flutters out to sea. Eagerly, as if it wants to catch up with the vanishing ship.
on an empty shoreline