**PART 2**
The following morning, I stood at the top of the gangway for five full minutes.
Passengers flowed around me like water around a stone.
“Ma’am, can I help you find something?”
A young crew member in a spotless white shirt was watching me with concern.
“The harbor café,” I said. “The one with the blue awning?”
He pointed along the quay.
“Ten minutes’ walk. You can’t miss it.”
Ten minutes.
I could manage that. Martin had walked the same route countless times.
The café occupied a corner overlooking the water, with seagulls circling overhead and salt hanging in the air.
It looked almost identical to the postcard Martin had mailed me decades earlier.
I stopped, pressing a hand over my mouth.
I took the photograph from my bag and compared it with the café before me.
There was Martin, much younger, smiling at a small round table.
Beside him sat an empty chair.
I turned the photograph over.
On the back, he’d written:
Saved you a seat.
I began laughing and crying simultaneously.
For years, I’d imagined Martin visiting these places without me.
But the photograph showed he’d kept an empty chair beside him, along with a message promising that seat was mine.
I found a table offering nearly the same view and sat down.
My plan was straightforward: take a photograph, then return to the ship.
But I remembered Martin describing the fish stew and the fishermen unloading their boats.
“Can I get you something?” the waiter asked.
“My husband used to eat here. Years ago. He always spoke highly of the fish stew.”
“Then try the stew,” he said. “So you can tell your husband that your cooking is better.”
His innocent remark hurt, but I nodded, concealing my tears.
I finished every bite.
Afterward, I photographed the harbor and the vacant chair opposite me. Leaving the chair out somehow felt wrong.
Between eating the bread and finishing my stew, I realized I’d actually enjoyed myself.
Guilt immediately followed.
How could I find pleasure in anything when Martin was gone?
Back aboard, I encountered Thomas near the elevators.
I told him about the café, the photograph, and how I’d managed to stay for lunch instead of immediately returning.
“The empty chair… Martin talked about that.” He smiled. “He kept your picture on the bridge, you know, right beside the compass.”
Right beside the compass.
Oh, Martin.
That evening, I examined the map again.
The second destination was a souvenir stall at our next port. Martin had written a woman’s name beside it, followed by one instruction.
Tell her you’re the girl I married.
I stared at those words.
Why would a souvenir vendor need to know I was Martin’s wife?
The café had introduced me to a place he cherished. This clue suggested someone there had known him personally.
Elena’s stall was beside the harbor, surrounded by painted ceramics and colorful scarves.
“Elena?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“Uh… I’m the girl Martin married.”
She jumped up so quickly her stool scraped across the pavement.
“Martin’s wife? The mermaid who stays ashore?”
I nodded.
“Oh, my dear.”
She came around the counter and clasped both my hands.
“Sit, sit. Years he came here. Always something small for you. A scarf. A little bell. He said, ‘She’ll pretend she doesn’t want it, but she’ll keep it forever.’”
I knew that bell.
It was hanging in my kitchen window, and I’d never known where Martin had found it.
“One day he showed me a photograph,” Elena said. “Your wedding. He said you were planning a cruise together, and if you ever came to my stall, would I hold something for you?” She shrugged. “I said yes. What else do you say to a man like that?”
She disappeared briefly and returned carrying an envelope.
Inside was a small copy of our wedding photograph, taken during our first dance.
My head was tilted back in laughter, with Martin’s hand resting against my back.
I remembered holding him so tightly that evening.
Barely a week after our wedding, he’d sailed away.
I’d clung to his hands, making him promise he’d return home.
Inside the envelope was another letter, written in his familiar handwriting, steadier than in his final message.
I was nervous too, you know. I loved the sea, but I knew what it would ask of you. I remember how tightly you held my hand during that first dance.
Every time I sailed away, I carried that moment with me. I wanted our anniversary cruise to be a second chance. A dance with nowhere else I had to be.
Until then, I’d believed the cruise was Martin’s last attempt to convince me to explore the world.
His letter revealed something different.
He’d wanted time with me—uninterrupted time together, without another voyage waiting to separate us.
“He never finished the map,” I told Elena, showing her a photograph on my phone.
She studied it and tapped an empty section.
“So? You finish it.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start. Those were his places.”
“Then choose some of your own.”
She offered the suggestion so casually, as though recommending another kind of tea.
Until that moment, I’d viewed the map only as Martin’s unfinished dream.
Could I really add destinations of my own?
I wandered slowly along the waterfront, watching fishermen repair their nets while a little girl chased pigeons.
On impulse, I purchased a tiny glass lighthouse, simply because I liked it.
Back in my cabin, I placed the lighthouse beside the map and picked up a pen.
For a long time, I held it above an empty space.
Elena had encouraged me to choose my own destinations, but the map still felt like Martin’s.
I wasn’t ready.
