The sea looked like melted glass beneath the morning sun. The ship swayed gently, humming with the slow rhythm of its engines, and I couldn't help but lean on the railing, staring at the endless horizon. For the first time in a while, I wasn't running after a case, or a whisper, or a dream. I was just… existing.
The salty air brushed through my hair, sharp and clean. A seagull screamed overhead, probably mocking me for being up this early. My body felt heavy from lack of sleep, but there was a strange peace in the rocking motion of the deck.
"Detective Han!"
I turned around to see Jung Woojin, the rookie, balancing two canned coffees in his hands like they were the Holy Grail. He walked toward me with that bright, slightly clumsy energy that only new detectives have before reality crushes them.
"Thought you could use this," he said, offering me one. "You look like a poet who just realized his dreams don't pay rent."
I blinked. "That's… oddly accurate."
He grinned, clearly proud of himself. "Guess I'm good at reading people."
"Or maybe I'm just easy to read," I said, taking a sip. The coffee was lukewarm, too sweet, and somehow perfect for the mood.
We leaned on the railing together, staring out at the waves. The ocean stretched endlessly in every direction, its blue surface reflecting light like broken glass. I felt small — and maybe that was a good thing.
"You ever been on a ship before?" he asked.
"Once," I said. "But it was smaller, and I threw up halfway."
He laughed, loud and genuine. "So there's still hope for me."
"You'd better not throw up near me," I muttered. "I've seen enough corpses in my life."
We spent the next hour wandering around the deck. Crew members were checking ropes and bolts, tourists were taking selfies, and the air smelled like fried food and salt. I could almost pretend I was normal — just a tired detective on a harmless trip.
At lunch, Woojin somehow convinced me to eat with a few of the crew. They were kind — rough around the edges but easy to talk to. One of them told us about old sea legends, about ghost ships that appeared during foggy nights.
I listened quietly, chewing my food. "A ship that steals people's reflections, huh?" I said. "Sounds like an efficient way to get rid of ugly passengers."
The table burst into laughter, and I smiled despite myself. Sometimes, humor was the only thing keeping me sane.
The hours passed in lazy rhythm. The sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and violet. I sat near the edge of the deck, sketching waves on the back of an old notebook. My handwriting looked shaky — maybe the ship's motion, maybe something else.
I thought about Ha-eun then. She'd been upset I didn't take her along. I took out my phone, typed a quick message.
The sea's calm today. Wish you were here.
Her reply came almost instantly.
Then maybe you're finally learning to relax, Detective.
I chuckled softly. "You're starting to sound like me," I murmured.
A crewman shouted in the distance, breaking my thoughts. The captain wanted everyone inside — said weather might change. But when I looked up, the sky was clear, stars already blinking like quiet eyes.
I stayed outside anyway.
The ship's deck glowed under the moonlight, silver reflections dancing on the surface of the sea.
I sat there for a while, letting the night air cool my face. The waves whispered in that same rhythmic lullaby — crash, retreat, crash again. I found myself matching my breath to it, like the sea was pulling me into its rhythm.
"Jihoon."
I turned — but no one was there. Just the dark deck, the sound of waves, and the faint clinking of metal against wood.
"...Get a grip," I muttered, rubbing my face. "You're starting to hear things again."
The flame of the lantern flared once more — a soft blue hue this time, brief but unmistakable. I felt my chest tighten. There was something about this sea, this silence, that didn't feel natural.
But I pushed it aside. Not tonight.
Instead, I leaned back against the railing, staring up at the stars. Maybe Ha-eun was looking at the same sky right now. Maybe my family was asleep, dreaming simple dreams. The thought grounded me.
"I hope you're all doing okay," I whispered. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine."
The sea didn't answer, of course. It just kept breathing — calm, steady, eternal.
Hours later, I found Woojin asleep on a bench, his hat covering his face. I smiled faintly, draped my coat over him, and headed back to my cabin.
The corridor was quiet, the only sound the faint creaking of wood and distant humming of engines. When I reached my door, I hesitated for a moment, glancing at the lantern in my hand.
"Stay quiet tonight," I said softly. "Please."
I set it beside my bed, turned off the lights, and let the sea rock me to sleep.
But just before I drifted off, I heard it again — a faint, muffled voice from inside the lantern.
"He's watching."
My eyes snapped open.
Silence.
Only the rhythm of the waves, as if nothing had spoken at all.
Still, as I lay there staring into the dark, a thought crept into my mind — small, quiet, but heavy:
Maybe the meaning of life wasn't in the answers we found, but in the brief moments of peace before the questions returned.
And tonight, under the weight of the sea and the whisper of something watching, I finally felt alive.