The morning of departure was gray.
No sun reflected in the water, only fog hung like a cloth over the lake. It crept between the trees, settled over the piers, as if wanting to swallow everything that had happened in the last few days. The air smelled of damp wood and cold smoke from the campfire that had burned yesterday.
In the hostel, it was loud yet muffled – a tired busyness. Doors slammed, backpacks were dragged, voices called over each other. The clacking of rolling suitcases mingled with the rustling of plastic bags and the scraping of chairs. It sounded like an ending.
Fiona stuffed her camera into her backpack, the lens carefully wrapped in a scarf. "Feels like it's been a year, not just a weekend," she murmured. "My muscles are sore from laughing."
Jonas lugged two bags, though only one belonged to him. "I don't want to go back. There's homework, Vanessa, and math."
"In exactly that order?" Fiona asked dryly.
