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Spiritfarers die alone.
Charon warned her as Stella initially took the job — it was par for the course. Completely and utterly unavoidable.
She would grow to teach, befriend, love these people, and they’d leave. Persistently.
Nothing could change it; fate’s cruel hands gripped her tight. Splintering nails digging in the flesh of her arm. It stung. The burning of an infected wound, poison swirling in her veins. Necrosis threatened her legs, her neck, her will — she let it fester.
Shiny wooden planks soon housed rot and damp, lapping waves encroaching; invading. They used to glisten, before things began to slip her mind. When she was one-hundred percent alive; instead of stood in death’s doorway.
Stella allowed it to happen fourteen times. Rowed her tender to the closing moments and hugged them farewell. The hugs were always the worst part, the last possible moment she’d ever get.
She wanted to dig in, hold strong — never relinquish them. They can turn around, back the way they came, and stride onto the boat together. Fingers interlocked.
Only one spirit steps off of the ferry again, she knew.
The water knows, as well. The scarlet ocean saw her every trip — lying in wait of the next. Misty clouds of smoke swirled to become watchful eyes, following her. They crept in her lap as she paddled, oar flailing limply across the vermillion amongst her tears.
The smog reminded her of Gwen, the first journey. Her oldest friend. They had grown hand in glove, practically inseparable. Spending hours riding down the French promenade, laughing til they were severely out of breath. Gwen started smoking as a teenager; Stella watched her kill herself.
She hadn't known what to expect of the Everdoor that time. It helped her nerves to have Gwen by her side, though it also hurt. She wasn't ready to give her up; it hit Stella like a swing to the chest, a punch to the stomach.
She didn't know of the flowers until she stumbled past the door of Gwen’s lodge and they looked her directly in the eye. Crawling on the wood of her bedframe, creeping atop the satin sheets which laid untouched after days. They seemed sad; as if they missed Gwen just as much as Stella did. Asphodels — calm in the afterlife; regrets to the grave.
Stella met the flora anew a few weeks later, in the form of white lilies. They caught her off-guard, towering above her as she hesitantly traipsed in the workshop. It was peaceful, without the sound of constant banging and clattering of tools — but lonely. She was accustomed to Atul’s presence filling a room, not the silent stems standing tall in the corner. Atul left no note, or explanation — solely silence.
A spirit-flower wouldn’t wilt, she learned.
Even still, Stella found herself playing to them endlessly. The song Summer taught her to play drifted lightly in the evening atmosphere, the strings of her guitar inviting buds and blooms to dance alongside them.
Months passed; they grew neither smaller nor bigger. Eternally stuck in an ageless state.
Steadily, the number of plants scattered about the ship blossomed.
They emerged in the rungs of the ladder in Summer’s sanctuary — oxeye daisies woven between the worn timber. A speckled peace lily joined them afterwards, tucked inbetween the many pillows and blankets inhabiting Alice’s old nest.
Stella recognised her friends in those leaves. She noted the warmth in the yellow cores of pollen, noticed their kind irises in soft petals. She felt them bleed through the pages of the symbolism book Buck lent her.
Astrid’s mallows lay lovestruck at the foot of her bed; Giovanni’s azure borages deserted to weather the elements in the company of the outside sofa.
Stella prevailed as colours sprouted and bloomed under the soles of her feet. Ruby red anemones, poppies and dahlias pooled near her ankles, swallowing her whole. They dragged her downwards to hell — a rippling wave licking fire along her shins.
Everytime Stella sailed towards the Everdoor the flood greeted her as long lost confidants. The rose spray surged to invade her lifeboat, trying to sink her. It splashed her palms akin to blood, staining them with guilt exactly the same.
It was a solitary cruise, in the end.
The sky bent — curling toward the ends of the earth to entwine to the horizon. The air bled into the rusty waters, dripping from heaven.
Her oars stilled in the depths, heaved over the edge as the final conclusion. The furthest page.
Bright golden light overwhelmed her in all directions; she welcomed her death in wide open arms.