Before the harbor morning began, Toma was already out on the pier, his brass key ring cold against his belt and his blue wool coat tight around him. He had followed the same strange thing for three days now: a neat line of fresh footprints in the snow, made by boots no one could name. They always began in the lanes of Driftwhistle Harbor, crossed past the rope rails and crab pots, and led straight toward the far end of the pier.
This morning, the wind had blown hard across the boards. Snow lay in thin, slippery sheets, and the frozen bay breathed under the ice with a low boom-boom that seemed to come from deep below his boots. Toma crouched, peering at the prints. They were so clear at first—heel, toe, heel, toe—then thinner where the wind had skimmed them clean.
He took one careful step, then another. The pier creaked. A gust pushed at his coat. He held the rope rail with one hand and bent lower to keep the trail in sight. The footprints did not wander. They marched straight ahead, as if whoever made them knew exactly where to go.
At the far end, the last print stopped just before the frozen water. No person stood there. No boat bumped the ice. Only the pale bay, the shaking rope, and the end of the trail.
Toma rested his hand on the last patch of snow and looked out over the ice. The tracks had come this far for a reason, but the reason was still hidden. Was he looking at a person, a promise, or something else using the pier before anyone else woke?
What happens next?
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