Travelling is not all people make it out to be, he thinks. Having a place where one can feel truly at home is so much better. But he, having travelled so long and so often, has no such place in the world.
He spends the afternoon on the ship’s deck, under a strange, waning light that makes the sea appear sickened and yellow. He pays his fellow passengers no mind even as he tips his hat out of habit, acknowledging their presence, but looking away before he can be mistaken for seeking conversation. He thinks of his lovely Marianne, left behind. How beautiful, how brave. How she wished she could accompany him on this voyage—he did, too, but of course knew such a thing to be impossible.
After the sun sets, he finally retreats to his cabin. He’s surprised to find he already thinks of it as his, even though he’s only inhabited it for a few days. It is small, wooden, the bed narrow and clad in red, which he appreciates; one can always find some comfort in things unapologetically red. He lies on it without getting out of his clothes. Marianne’s arm lies quietly next to him. When her hand cups his cheek gently as he rests his head on the foreign pillow, he thinks, now this, maybe this, one day, can feel like home.
