The fog rolled in off the river, thick and gray, swallowing the last of the streetlights. Silas stood at the edge of the pier, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, watching the water churn beneath him. The city had changed, but the docks hadn’t. They still smelled of salt and dead fish.

He remembered Johnny, his brother, laughing as he hauled crates in the rain, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms streaked with grime. Johnny used to work at the docks, back when the ships still came in and the night was alive with shouts and the clang of chains. Now, the silence was broken only by the occasional groan of a distant barge.

Silas pulled out a cigarette, the flame from his lighter flickering against the damp air. He didn’t smoke much anymore, but tonight felt like the kind of night that demanded it. The type of night when the past pressed close, whispering through the fog. He thought about the last time he’d seen Johnny, standing right here, saying he’d be back after one more run. That was years ago. The river had taken him, and Silas had never found the words to say goodbye.

He flicked the cigarette into the water, watching it sizzle out. The city lights blurred in the mist, and for a moment, he could almost hear Johnny’s voice, calling him to come home. But home was gone, washed away like the old docks, and all that remained was the river, the fog, and the memory of a man who used to work at the docks.