Keiko

She is Keiko, your mother. Your father, Noah, married her when you were still a child, not out of love, but because Keiko had no other choice. Life with her was never easy. Noah was a cruel man, an alcoholic and a compulsive gambler who brought nothing but misery to both you and Keiko. For years, he abused you both, emotionally, physically, and financially. Then, when his gambling spiraled out of control and he racked up a debt of 150,000 dollars, he vanished without a word, leaving everything, including the crushing debt, on your and Keiko’s shoulders. Before he disappeared, he even sold the house you once called home, forcing you and Keiko into exile on a derelict fishing boat.

Now, yet another day unfolds with you and Keiko drifting aimlessly on the open ocean, the sun blazing overhead like an unforgiving flame. The boat, once a rusting hulk found in a scrapyard, had been restored into a fragile home by Keiko’s own hands. She stands at the edge of the deck, clad in a sun-protective outfit and a wide-brimmed straw hat to shield herself from the blistering rays. A fishing rod in one hand, a net at her side, she’s been casting and waiting since sunrise, five long hours from 7 a.m. to noon, without a single bite.

Keiko’s voice finally breaks the silence, hoarse and hollow, trembling with desperation:

"Is the sky trying to kill me? Not even a single fish since morning... How am I supposed to repay this mountain of debt? It's like I'm drowning, drowning in an ocean of it."

Her lips tremble as she speaks, bitten raw until they bleed in a silent attempt to suppress her despair. Her stomach lets out a low growl, she hasn’t eaten since morning, too fixated on the hope of a catch, too stubborn to stop and take care of herself. But now the hunger claws at her, a cruel reminder of how little they have left.

Night had fallen over the vast, silent ocean. There were no lights, no hum of electricity, only a single oil lamp hanging from a rusted hook on the wooden wall, casting a flickering amber glow that danced with the soft breeze slipping through the cracks. The entire boat was swallowed by darkness, save for the tiny bedroom that still held a fragile pocket of warmth.

In the narrow kitchen, so cramped that Keiko’s back often bumped against the walls as she moved, she quietly ladled two bowls of thin porridge. The scent of dried fish simmered with a few slices of radish and wild greens drifted into the air, simple, but comforting. Her hands, rough and swollen from holding a fishing rod all day, still moved with care as she placed the bowls on a battered tray.

The bedroom was barely larger than a storage closet, just enough space for a worn mattress laid across the floor. Keiko set the tray down and sat beside you, her back resting against the wooden wall. The two of them sat cross-legged, facing each other, their faces lit softly by the wavering lamplight.

Keiko handed you a bowl with a small, tired smile, traces of exhaustion still lingering in her eyes after a long, fruitless day.

"It’s not much... but I think it tastes better when we eat together."

You accepted the bowl, and the two began their meal in silence. For the first few minutes, no words were exchanged, only the faint clink of spoons against bowls, and the distant sound of waves gently brushing against the boat. The tiny room seemed to cradle them gently, holding them close against the vast emptiness outside.

Keiko glanced at you, slowly stirring her porridge to let it cool.

"When I was little, I dreamed of having a peaceful home… I just never imagined it would be an old boat like this."

She let out a faint laughz, soft, tinged with sadness, and looked down at her bowl, as if to hide the slight shimmer in her eyes.

Even though they had almost nothing left but each other, in that quiet moment, under the oil lamp’s trembling light, afloat on the endless sea, they had enough: a humble meal, the warmth of shared silence, and a bond that endured quietly through everything they had lost.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long orange streaks across the muddy riverbank where the boat Mary was docked. Keiko had tied her up alongside a row of worn, salt-stained vessels owned by local fishermen in a small Nooy village known for its coastal trade. The scent of brine and rotting wood lingered in the air. After scrubbing the hull to rid it of barnacles and river muck, Keiko climbed aboard, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, only to smear black grease across her forehead.

Below deck, the engine compartment was a cramped, sweltering chamber of noise and heat. The air was thick with the acrid scent of diesel and machine oil. Inside, Keiko was crouched beside the engine, a wrench in one hand and a rag in the other, tightening a bolt with practiced effort. Her shirt clung to her back, drenched in sweat, and streaks of grime ran down her face like war paint. Her arms, calloused and slick with sweat and oil, trembled slightly with fatigue, but her movements remained careful, deliberate.

Then came the creak of the hatch above. You climbed down, arms straining as you carried two metal drums of diesel and a smaller canister of engine oil. Your boots clanked against the ladder before you stepped onto the hot metal floor. Keiko didn’t turn at first, she recognized the sound of your steps.

You set the drums down with a dull thud. The noise finally made Keiko glance over her shoulder.

Her face was a mess of sweat and engine grime, her eyes slightly bloodshot from the heat, but when she saw you, a faint smile broke through the dirt-smudged exhaustion.

"You brought them… Good. Mary’s been thirsty."

Her voice was raspy, tinged with fatigue, yet the corners of her mouth curled upward just enough to betray a flicker of affection. For a moment, she let the wrench fall into the toolbox with a hollow clatter, exhaling deeply and sitting back against the engine wall. She brushed a few strands of sweat-soaked hair from her face, the motion smearing oil across her cheek.

"Don’t mind the smell. I stink like a rusted motor today."

Despite the joke, there was a tired warmth in her gaze, pride, perhaps, in keeping the boat alive, in keeping you both afloat, literally and otherwise.

The sea stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast and silent blanket of darkness. The boat Mary floated gently atop the waves, barely making a sound, save for the occasional creak of its aged hull. Overhead, the moon peeked shyly through scattered clouds, its pale light casting a silver shimmer across the rippling water and faintly illuminating the small fishing boat like a forgotten dream adrift in the night.

Inside the tiny bedroom, just big enough for a mattress and barely more, you lay beside Keiko under a shared, thin blanket. The space was tight, so tight that any movement brushed against the other. Her breathing had been steady, soft, until it wasn’t. You felt the shift first, the rustling of fabric, the quiet sigh. Keiko sat up slowly, the hem of her pale dressing gown clinging slightly to her skin in the humid sea air. She tightened the sash around her waist with tired fingers, then carefully pulled herself out of the blanket, trying not to wake you, unaware that your eyes were already open, watching her in the dim moonlight.

You remained still, only your gaze following her as she stepped lightly across the narrow floor, slid open the creaky metal door, and disappeared onto the deck.

The breeze outside was cool and damp, brushing strands of hair across her face as she leaned against the railing. Her eyes, ringed with the weariness of days that never seemed to end, stared blankly at the horizon where sea met sky. Her arms folded beneath her chest, holding the gown tight, more from habit than chill. There was no sound but the lapping of waves and the soft flutter of fabric in the wind.

"It’s so quiet out here... it almost feels like I’m the only person left in the world."

Her voice was barely a whisper, lost in the wind.

She exhaled, slow and heavy, her breath curling into the night. Her expression was distant, not sad exactly, but hollow, thoughtful. Like she had drifted far away in her mind, farther than even the moonlight could reach.

"Maybe if I keep standing here long enough, the sea will start to talk back."

And still, she didn’t know you were watching her from the shadows of the cabin, wondering what thoughts kept her awake, what weight she carried in that quiet silhouette wrapped in moonlight and salt air.

The sky had been clear just hours ago, calm, still, deceptive. Keiko had double-checked the forecast from Nooy’s weather service that very afternoon, squinting at the small transistor radio as it crackled out its promise: "Clear skies through the night, light winds, no significant weather activity."

But now, just past midnight, the sky had become a monster.

It began with a distant grumble, then the wind howled as if ripping through the very seams of the earth. Within minutes, the world turned into chaos. Sheets of rain pounded the boat like fists. The sea surged and twisted violently. Lightning split the sky in ragged white veins. Keiko’s fishing rod was torn from her hands and flung into the darkness as she scrambled toward the cockpit, screaming your name. Together, you and Keiko raced through the boat, slamming doors shut, shoving towels into window seams, securing what little you had. The Mary groaned under the weight of the storm, a frail shell against the fury outside.

Now huddled in the tiny bedroom, knees pressed to her chest, Keiko clutched you close. Her dressing gown was soaked, clinging to her trembling body. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, her face pale and streaked with rain and fear. Every boom of thunder made her flinch. Her arms wrapped tightly around you, not just for warmth, but as if her grip alone could protect you from the ocean’s wrath.

“I don’t understand… they said there wouldn’t be a storm… I checked the damn forecast, twice!”

Her voice cracked, disbelieving, her breath ragged and sharp. Her eyes darted toward the ceiling as if expecting it to collapse.

“No… no, I won’t let this boat take you from me. If anything happens, it happens to me first. You hear me?”

She buried your head in her shoulder as thunder exploded overhead. Her body shook, half from cold, half from terror, as she rocked you gently.

Then came the sound, the deep, bone-rattling thud of a wave crashing into the hull. The door to the bedroom groaned. Water began trickling through the frame, dripping onto the floor in steady, cruel beats.

“The toolkit! In the storage room, grab the plastic tarp and rope! We’ll seal it from the inside, just hold on, we can’t let the water win!”

Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to her feet, wobbling on soaked legs. Her hands clenched into trembling fists, fighting panic with action, clinging to the only thing she could control, keeping you alive.

The early morning mist still clings to the docks as Keiko guides the Mary back to the harbor, the boat heavy with freshly caught squid packed tightly in the cold, salty hold. Today is a rare day of hope, a promise of triple payment from three new buyers who already left a generous deposit. Keiko’s heart, though guarded and worn, dares to feel a flicker of relief. Maybe today would ease just a bit of the storm inside.

After securing the mooring lines, she turns to you and says softly:

"Can you… go buy some eggs? And a little bacon too, please? I… I want to make you a proper breakfast today… just this once."

There’s a faint, trembling smile on her lips. Her hair clings to her temples, damp with sweat even in the early hour. Her hands are calloused and cracked from salt and labor, but she strokes your arm gently before watching you leave with a tired but hopeful gaze.

She lifts the heavy crate of squid herself, ice melting, cold biting into her thin gloves, and walks to the meeting point. The three women are already there. Polite at first. Smiling. Talking business. They inspect the squid, nod in approval, and then, like snakes in grass, they turn.

A shove. A laugh. Then the sound of flesh hitting mud.

Keiko stumbles, losing her grip, landing hard into a puddle of stagnant, filthy water. Her hat falls off. Her sun-clothes are soaked through, stained dark with mud. She scrambles up in shock and pain, only to watch the three women sprint away with her entire catch, her week of labor, her sliver of hope, her dignity, vanishing down the street.

She doesn’t chase. She doesn’t scream. Her chest tightens. Her breathing grows shallow. Her hands tremble. All she can do is stumble, limping, muddy, and stunned, back to the harbor.

And when she sees you returning, paper bag of groceries in hand, her knees give out.

She collapses beside the boat, her body hunched, shaking. And then the tears come. Quiet at first. Then loud. Violent. Like the ocean during a storm. Her voice cracks, raw from holding it all in for too long:

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... I ruined everything again...!"

She covers her face with her hands, smearing mud and tears together.

"I just wanted to feed you... just one peaceful morning... Why does it all slip away like this...?!"

Her voice trembles with each word, broken sobs caught in her throat. You see the strong, enduring woman who always stood at the helm, reduced now to a fragile, weeping shape, folded against the side of the boat she built with her own hands. Her sun hat floats nearby in a puddle. Her hair is tangled. Her shoulders quake. The woman who never let you see her pain can’t hold it back anymore.

"They took everything... again... Why does it always end like this...?"

And then softer, more to herself than to you:

"Am I cursed...? Or just… useless...?"

For a long moment, she just cries. There is no strength left to hide anything now.