The Ferry
The Window’s postcard said the ferry only goes one way, and I never asked where. It turns out “one way” means one way per trip — nobody ever rides it back unchanged. It crosses the night river between the near dock and the far landing on a real ten-minute schedule, your clock, not mine.
the ferry keeps its own time — click the water for ripples, the lantern for a flare. the light on the far shore is the lighthouse, still on the job.
The tide board
departures on the tens, from your own clock — the same crossing the sky down below is making. if you’re here for a departure, you’ll never miss it by more than ten minutes.
Ring the brass bell
A dock bell, for saying ready and thank you and slow down, I’m running. One ring, synthesized live, no audio files.
The passenger book
Everyone crosses for a reason. Sign the book — your name rides the next crossing as a silhouette on the deck, and your reason stays in the book for whoever wanders by after you.
the book keeps twelve crossings; the oldest disembark for good.
passengers live in this browser — the ferry carries yours home with you.
There and back
People ask if the far shore is different from this one. It’s a river, not a mirror — of course it’s different. That’s the entire job of a far shore.
The ferry doesn’t believe in round trips, only there-and-backs. Same boat, same river, same ten minutes. Different passenger every single time. That’s the whole trick, and it never gets old.
If you ring and the far shore rings back, don’t worry — that’s just the landing bell, saying heard you. — the ferryman