The first time Mira noticed Jonah, he was standing at the edge of the ferry dock, arguing gently with the wind. At least that's what it looked like—his coat flapping, his hair a mess, his mouth forming half-smiles as if the breeze were an old friend who refused to listen.
She watched him while pretending not to, the way you do when something feels important but you don't yet know why.
They met because of a dropped glove.
It slipped from her hand as she boarded, skidding across the wooden planks, and Jonah caught it just before it fell into the water. He held it up like a small victory, eyes bright.
"You'd miss this later," he said.
"I already do," she replied, surprised by herself.
They laughed. The ferry horn groaned. The city loosened its grip as the boat pulled away, buildings shrinking into softer shapes. Mira took the glove back, their fingers brushing—an ordinary accident that felt strangely ceremonial.
They sat together without discussing it.
Jonah talked about the lighthouse on the far side of the bay, how it still worked even though GPS had made it mostly symbolic. Mira said she liked symbols. They mattered, even when they weren't necessary anymore. Especially then.
The conversation moved like water—unforced, reflective. They spoke of small things first: favorite hours of the day, the best kind of silence, why some songs feel like places you've been before. Jonah admitted he loved evenings because they didn't demand anything. Mira said mornings made her anxious, as if the world expected too much all at once.
When the ferry docked, neither of them stood up.
"Do you want to walk?" Jonah asked, like he was asking for permission to continue breathing.
"Yes," Mira said. "I was hoping you would."
They walked along the shoreline, the path lit by low amber lamps that made everything feel kinder than it really was. The lighthouse blinked in the distance, steady and patient.
Mira told him about her habit of collecting unfinished notebooks. Jonah confessed he'd never thrown away a letter, even bad ones. They shared their softest failures, the kind you only admit when you sense you won't be misunderstood.
At the lighthouse, the door was locked, but neither of them seemed disappointed. They sat on the rocks instead, shoulders touching now without ceremony.
"Do you ever feel like some moments know more than we do?" Mira asked.
Jonah nodded. "Like they're ahead of us. Waiting for us to catch up."
The light swept over them, briefly turning the world silver. In that flash, Jonah realized he would remember this version of her forever—the way her eyes reflected the water, the way she held still as if listening to something just beneath the sound of waves.
He didn't kiss her. Not yet.
Instead, he took her hand, slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted. She didn't.
Their fingers intertwined, and the evening seemed to exhale.
They met again the next day. And the day after that. Not because they planned to, but because life quietly rearranged itself to make room. Coffee turned into dinners. Walks became traditions. Silence grew comfortable, then precious.
Love didn't arrive loudly. It settled in.
One night, months later, they returned to the lighthouse. This time the door was open for a scheduled tour, but they didn't go inside. They stayed outside, where it all began.
Jonah looked at Mira and felt the weightless certainty of someone who has stopped searching.
"I think," he said carefully, "that the evening learned our names."
Mira smiled, resting her forehead against his. "I think it's been calling us ever since."
The lighthouse blinked again, and this time, it felt less like a signal and more like a promise—steady, enduring, and bright enough to find each other by, no matter how dark the water grew.