Breath of Ashmere

Ashmere folded itself like rusted origami against the grey sea. Towers that had once promised offices and cinemas now stood toothless, window-eyed and salt-bleached, their lower floors half-swallowed by a slow, indifferent ocean. A gull's cry had been eaten by wind so often that the sound had grown thin; in its place the settlement had cultivated other noises — the creak of patched pontoons, the low chatter of barter, the soft percussion of hammers and wrenches. Rin leaned over the hull she was patching and felt the wood sigh under her palms. The grain was black with salt and oil. When she tightened the last bracket the boat gave a contented groan like a mouth closing. Her fingertips tasted of tar.

She had learned to read the city in seams and joints. Where other people traced the past by looking at photographs framed behind cracked glass, Rin read it in the place a railing had been welded back together, in the way algae braided itself through a chipped screw. She was twenty-three, small-shouldered and stubborn, with hair the color of rope left in the sun and a scar on the knuckle of her right hand where a clamp had slipped. The scar throbbed when rain came. Today the sky was hard and dry; a heat that didn't belong to summer clung to the metal.

'Rin!' called Mara from the dock. Her voice bounced off corrugated roofs and came back like a question that had lost its answer. Mara carried a bucket, the rim dented, and a child on her hip whose hair had been hacked short to discourage lice. The child waved at Rin with a palm rimed in salt.

'Almost done,' Rin answered without looking up. She felt the pull of other work like a tug at the hem of a coat. The desal tower's siren — the long, thin bell that meant water levels — had been silent for three days. People spoke of it in the mornings as if it were weather: anxious, hushed. The cistern at the center of Ashmere, the big, blue bladder stitched together from old banners and plastic tarpaulins and hardened hope, had been leaking for five nights. Last night, old Man Sook had come by with a jar of clear water and told her father to drink but to keep it at small, measured pulls. The jar had been heavy with the memory of a trade.

Her father sat in their patchwork house, a small room nailed between two storefronts where a barber had once cut hair. He coughed and his hands trembled when he tried to braid rope. He was the kind of man who could take a ruined engine and coax it into purring; he taught Rin about torque and patience. He had not taught her how to watch a body give away its strength. She had to learn that alone, in the dim hours when the rest of the settlement tuned itself to sleep.

The ship's plank under her boot was warm. In the distance, the line where water met sky rippled like a seam. Life here had been a long negotiation with rust and tide. Sometimes she thought the sea remembered the city better than the people did. It did not forgive. It collected.