"My dear friend, it appears that the hour has come."
Cardinal Jean-Paul, Date Unknown.
Francis hated monotony. Yet, monotony he got for the remainder of the afternoon.
The bar was nearly silent, save for the sounds of waves in the far distance and the occasional drunk mumbling gibberish.
Francis wiped another mug with the corner of a rag that had seen better days. He didn't look up. There was no reason to. The same two old men sat where they always did, downing watered-down drinks in near silence.
He sighed, turning the mug in his hands, watching the streaks fade beneath the towel.
"Sailing," he thought, gaze drifting toward the door. "That's where life's supposed to be."
The masts, the call of gulls, the endless blue. It looked nothing like the sorry excuse for a bar he worked in.
Then his mind did what it always did. It came back to reality.
Too expensive, too dangerous.
He pressed the mug down on the counter a little harder than necessary.
"Sailing," he muttered, half to himself, half to the nearly empty room. "A fine way to end up as a decoration."
One of the old men grunted. The other laughed, then quiet again.
Francis went back to wiping, keeping his imagination at bay.
By the time the sun began its slow descent, the bar was breathing again.
The afternoon's quiet gave way to the evening's familiar chaos as boots thudded against the floorboards.
Francis kept to his work—refilling mugs, wiping the counter, pretending not to listen to the snatches of gossip drifting between tables.
Old Mrs. Keller was swearing her neighbor's boy had stolen her chickens again. Two sailors argued over whose cousin had seen a mermaid, and in the corner, a trio of fishermen whispered about an empty pirate ship found near the coast of Havana.
He didn't even look up. The words contained nothing he hadn't heard already.
Idiots, if I ever became a pirate, I wouldn't even earn a bounty.
Ear-defining laughter pulled him back to the room. Someone slammed a coin on the table, while another cursed in reply.
His gaze wandered to the window. Beyond it, the sun melted into the horizon, painting the sea a deep bronze. Out there, far past the reefs and the gulls, was the world he kept imagining.
But Saint Agnes was different. Too small, too quiet, too poor. The archipelago didn't even have a decent dock—just splintered piers and finishing boats and skiffs that looked one storm away from rotting through.
He smiled. It was a dry smile, a humourless smile, a sorrowful smile.
"No wonder no pirate ever bothers with us," he muttered. "There's nothing here to take."
Then he went back to work. The chatter rose once more, and the dream, as always, went silent.
***
Francis rushed out the door the moment his shift was over. The change was always quiet—just a nod to his replacement, a few muttered words about who hadn't paid their tab, and then the sound of the door closing behind him.
The street outside was nearly empty. Lamps flickered with dying oil. The sea wind carried the sour tang of fish and salt. He walked the narrow road to his apartment above a cobbler's shop, boots echoing against the wood.
Inside, the air was still and warm. He didn't bother lighting the lamp. Just tossed the rag aside, crossed the room, and dropped onto the bed. The frame groaned. He didn't take off his boots. Didn't care to.
For a while, he stared at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster. His thoughts drifted to the sea again, as they always did. The idea of leaving wasn't just a fantasy anymore—it was beginning to sound like relief.
He tried to imagine what it would be like: the wind, the deck shifting underfoot, the open horizon. No dull routine. No wiping mugs until the skin on his fingers split. Just motion above a sea of uncertainty.
The thought should have scared him. It didn't.
He closed his eyes. Faces came and went—his father, who'd vanished before Francis was old enough to remember him; his mother, whose cough had taken her a few winters later. All that was left of them was the room he now lay in and the fading names on a headstone near the chapel.
He could live like this forever, he supposed. It wouldn't be the worst fate. He had a roof. A steady wage. Enough to eat.
But it wasn't living. It was waiting.
His mind wandered to the idea of marriage. A quiet life. A wife, maybe a child. The image lingered for a moment before dissolving.
He couldn't do that to them.
He couldn't bring someone else into the same stillness.
The sea called again in his thoughts—louder this time, clearer. The danger of it didn't matter. The cost didn't matter.
He turned onto his side, staring out the small window. The stars blinked faintly above the harbor. Somewhere out there, ships were moving—free, aimless, alive.
Francis shut his eyes. He'd made up his mind.
If I were to leave, I'd need a way. And that means a ship.
The Royal Navy came to mind first. Safe, structured, fed two times a day. But he'd heard stories—men whipped for sleeping past dawn, forced to scrub decks until their hands bled. Years at sea, only to come home broken or not at all. Dying on a warship didn't sound much better than dying here.
Pirates, then. The word had weight. Freedom, gold, danger. He almost laughed at himself. To join a pirate crew meant living under a captain's whim, always one cannonball away from the deep. One bad encounter with the Navy, and you'd be shark feed.
Privateers were the in-between—killers with papers and permission. They had structure, pay, and a thin layer of respectability. But they wouldn't want him. He could read, write, and mix a drink—none of which helped in a broadside. He wasn't special, just literate and alive.
That left sailing alone. A romantic idea. A stupid one. He knew how to pour rum, not read stars.
He sighed and rolled onto his back. The bed creaked.
"What options," he muttered. "As if I've got any to choose from."
He closed his eyes again, forcing the thoughts away. When morning came, when a ship—any ship—docked at St. Agnes, he'd take it.
Didn't matter where it was going. Didn't matter who captained it.
If they'd have him, he'd go.
***
Francis didn't remember when he'd fallen asleep.
Didn't remember if he'd even closed the door.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes, the faint light of dawn leaking through the shutters.
"I guess I'm that bored, huh?" he muttered.
Bits of the dream resurfaced in his mind—his mother's voice, soft and far away. He was small again, sitting cross-legged by the fire while she spoke of adventurers and their daring, of men who braved storms and beasts to carve their names into the sea. She'd always stopped before the ugly parts. The ones children had to be oblivious to.
The dream shifted. The fire went out, as darkness swallowed everything.
Then came the voice.
It wasn't hers. It was too smooth, too calm. Feminine, maybe, though distant, like it came from under the sea.
Claim what is rightfully yours.
My blessings shall aid in opening those doors.
He exhaled slowly, staring at the floorboards. It wasn't the first time he'd heard it.
Once, he'd even told a priest. The man's reply hadn't changed since.
"Don't dwell on such things, son. What you don't know can't hurt you."
It was easy advice to follow—until lately. Until the silence began to press in.
Francis swung his legs off the bed, boots thudding against the floor.
"I'll look into it later," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I'm late enough already."
He stood, stretched once, and reached for the door. The morning waited.
Francis descended the stairs in silence. The steps sagged under his weight, nails jutting from the edges, plaster peeling from the walls. The building had always been like this. He shared it with a dozen others, all just as poor and just as quiet.
Halfway down, he paused. Sunlight leaked through a gap in the wall; the boards creaked in the wind. For a moment, he thought about how easily the place could fall apart. Then he shrugged and kept going.
Outside, the street was gray with mist. The air carried the faint smell of salt and bread from the harbor. He drew in a breath and started walking, boots tapping against the cobblestones.
The breeze was colder than he liked, but it woke him up. The chapel bell would ring soon. He lengthened his stride.
If he didn't hurry, he'd be late for mass.
Halfway there, a voice called out.
"Morning, Francis!"
He turned. Camila stood a few paces away, a woven basket on her arm, hair tied back with a strip of blue cloth. Her smile was too bright for the hour, as it usually was.
"Morning," he said, matching her pace as she caught up.
"You're headed to mass too?"
"As always," he replied. He wasn't exactly religious, but mass offered him familiarity and warmth that he hadn't felt since his mother departed.
She laughed softly. "You always sound like you're being dragged there."
Francis gave a faint smile. "Perhaps."
She filled the silence before it had time to grow. Talked about the weather, about her neighbor's new cat, about how the priest's sermons were getting longer every week. He listened, nodding when needed. Camila could talk enough for the both of them.
He wasn't blind. He knew the way she looked at him when she thought he wouldn't notice. Knew what her lingering smiles meant. In truth, he didn't mind it. He even liked her—simple, kind, a bit of an airhead, but honest in a way most people weren't.
Still, as she spoke, he found himself thinking of the sea again. Of the ships drifting just beyond the horizon.
Camila deserved someone better. Someone who wanted to stay.
He wasn't cruel enough to pretend otherwise, not even for a night's comfort.
As the chapel came into view, its bell still tolling over the rooftops, Francis offered her a small nod.
"After you," he said.
Camila smiled again, stepping ahead through the heavy wooden doors, then he followed.
If I leave, she'll forget me soon enough.
They slipped into the chapel just as the last murmurs of the rosary faded. Candles burned low along the altar, their wax pooled and dripping over the holders. The bishop adjusted his robe and cleared his throat, his voice rising through the rafters, steady and practiced.
Francis and Camila found a place near the back. The benches creaked as they sat.
The chapel wasn't empty, but it wasn't full either. Empty pews stretched like missing teeth near the front. Once, the whole town would've been here—families, sailors, even the drunkards from the docks. But that was before the Cataclysm. Before people decided that the old faith had lost its strength.
Now, more and more turned elsewhere—to the sea, to whispers of new gods, to promises of power in exchange for little more than sanity. The clergy called it heresy. Demonic temptation. But their warnings meant little when the world itself had started to bend and change.
Francis had heard the stories. Everyone had. Pirates who breathed fire. Marines who could summon storms with a word. Ordinary men reshaped into monsters and legends. It probably made sermons feel small to some.
The bishop's voice droned on, but Francis's mind drifted. He stared at the candlelight, imagining the glow as something else. What if he did take the risk? Step beyond the island, beyond the safety of what little he had?
He caught himself and shut his eyes. Foolish thoughts. The unknown didn't bless, it broke. Those who sought its favor rarely came back whole.
He exhaled, forcing his focus back to the sermon. The bishop was speaking of sin and endurance now, of the Lord's steady hand through chaos. Camila bowed her head beside him, lips moving in prayer.
Francis stayed still. His gaze lingered on the flickering light, that same restless thought gnawing at the edge of his mind.
When mass ended, the townsfolk began to file out—quietly, as always. The bishop gave his final blessing, and the chapel's doors opened to the morning light.
Camila turned to him, her hands clasped in front of her, a faint smile on her face.
"Would you like to do something today?" she asked. "Walk by the shore, maybe? Or visit the market before the crowd comes in?"
Francis hesitated. His usual excuses flickered through his head—work at the bar, small repairs at home, a book to finish. The same things he said every time. They weren't lies, not exactly, just shields to keep the world at arm's length.
"I should probably—"
"Francis, come on. There's no one else to talk to anymore. Everyone's either gone to sea, joined the Navy, or been taken by pirates. You can't spend all day reading again."
Her tone was soft, but the words stung a little. She wasn't wrong. Most of their childhood friends had vanished one way or another, leaving behind quiet houses and worried mothers. Saint Agnes had become a place of waiting.
Or rather stagnation.
He studied her face. She was trying not to sound desperate, but he could see it in her eyes. The loneliness. The small hope that he might fill it.
Francis sighed. He'd never been good at saying no to that kind of look.
"Fine," he said. "If you're that bored, you can come by later. I'll read you something. My family left a few old novels. A bit dry, but better than nothing."
Her eyes lit up, the kind of smile that made him regret giving in, but also glad he had.
"I'd like that," she said.
He nodded, trying to sound indifferent. "Then it's settled."
They stepped out into the sun together. Francis squinted against the light, wondering—just briefly—what his life might look like if he didn't always find a reason to walk away.