Retracing the Lines

I followed the harbor map in reverse—tucking low beneath shop eaves and hugging the stone walls all the way back up Quay Hill. My boots picked up tiny flecks of wet grit, but I didn't stop until... well, until I squeezed right back through the porch door's draft seal! The air inside was completely dry and still. I collapsed flat onto the prickly brown fibers of the doormat, wedging my back tight against the familiar heel of that yellow rain boot. Sitting here with my hat bells resting quiet against my collar... I actually made it back. The harbor was real, but this corner feels so much safer.