The Wound

The captain's hands taught yours. Thirty years past, he folded your child-fingers around the sextant, aimed your eye at Polaris. That one never moves, he said. When the compass lies and the charts are wrong and your own eyes betray you – hold that. You have sailed with him since. You know the grain of this tiller, worn smooth by his grip and his captain's before him. You have bled for this crew, and they for you. One night, the crew sleeps below. Above, the star holds its ancient post. You check the heading. You check again. The captain has set a course for the rocks. You can hear them – the sea breaking itself on what does not yield. You know this sound. You have sailed past it a hundred times, always on the captain's heading. The man who taught you the difference between star and tiller is the one who chose wrong. Wake him: betrayal. Seize the wheel: mutiny. Stay silent: splinters by dawn. The star does not move. It only waits.

The Path

The star holds its post. You stand beneath, turned to stone. Something whispers: Thirty years. He taught you everything. What right have you? You could wake him. You imagine his face in lantern-light, confusion thinning to something harder. You see the decades between you calcify into rock. The crew will see you at the wheel, the captain shouting, the ship turning against his orders. They will not understand. They will hate you for it, and walk alive onto the shore regardless. He gave you that star. The one who taught you to hold it is now steering for the rocks. You seize the wheel. The wood is still warm from his grip. The hull groans as she turns. Behind you, the cabin door slams open. But the ship has already answered. Your arms burn through the night. By dawn, the rocks are behind you. The captain stands at the bow, his back to the rocks. He does not turn. You were faithful to the first thing he taught you – even when he forgot it himself.

The Shadow

Some cannot distinguish the teacher from the teaching. The Loyal Wreck sees the rocks. His chest tightens – cold as chain. But when he thinks of the captain, of the crew who look at him with the trusting eyes of kin, the arithmetic becomes unbearable. The star must have moved. The charts must be wrong. The captain has never failed us before. He grips the rail when the impact comes. In the water, in the last moments, he feels a terrible peace: At least I was not alone when I died. But he was not faithful. He was only lonely. He loved the man more than the star the man gave him, and so he betrayed them both. ⧫ The Immaculate Helmsman sees the rocks and feels vindication. Finally, proof. All those years of quiet doubt – now justified. He seizes the wheel with righteousness, his hand rigid with the need to be right. He threads the rocks with surgical precision. But he does not go below to check the water stores. He does not hear the crew's thirst, their whispered questions. He loves the chart more than the ship. He arrives at port with an immaculate log and a hold full of ghosts.

The Cut