Rain crept in before dusk at Keelung Harbor, thin and steady, slicking the planks until they shone like dark glass. Fishing boats lingered just long enough to tie their lines before engines cut and silhouettes slipped toward shore. Diesel fumes tangled with temple incense drifting in from the inland streets. Somewhere beyond the warehouses, the harbor PA crackled:
“Final arrivals will dock at Pier Three. Waiting passengers, please remain behind the line.”
Ghost Month had begun. No one stayed longer than they had to.
I did.
My phone still held my mother’s last message: The doctor says soon. The word seemed heavier now. I had typed three replies and erased them. I told myself I was waiting for the rain to ease.
I wasn’t ready to go home.
My grandmother used to say: Never answer first. Never follow a lantern that moves against the tide. In Keelung, explanations came after.
The minute on my phone flickered. Changed. Then slipped back.
The harbor went still.
Not quiet—stilled. Waves flattened. The PA cut off mid-word. Rain stopped inches above the sea and vanished before it could fall.
On the water, a single paper lantern burned.
It drifted toward shore.
A Ghost Lantern That Refused the Sea
The lantern moved gently against the tide, parting the surface as if the water made room. Pier lights failed one by one, leaving long stretches of shadow between brief pools of glow.
My phone vibrated.
The same minute stared back at me.
The lantern touched the pier.
Water rippled. A soft step followed. Then another.
Someone was walking where the water should have been.
A girl stood at the edge. Her pale dress clung to her legs. Long hair veiled part of her face.
“Are you lost?” I asked.
“Not lost.”
Her voice sounded worn, as if she had been repeating the same answer for years.
“Waiting.”
“For who?”
“They said soon.”
The word tightened something in my chest.
She tilted her head, studying me.
“Say it.”
The harbor lights flickered back for half a second, then died again. The water behind her folded inward, dark and slow.
I kept my mouth closed.
The lantern brightened.
The One Who Waited Too Long at Keelung Harbor
Her feet rested on the planks. They made no sound.
“I can help,” I said, before I knew why.
The lantern flared, its glow stretching thin across the water. The pier looked longer than I remembered.
“You won’t feel the water,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“Because I stopped feeling it.”
The smell of salt and rotted rope thickened.
In the puddles along the boards, the lantern reflected clearly. The planks reflected clearly.
She did not.
Her fingers closed around my wrist. The cold was not sharp. It seeped in slowly, patient and certain. My hand twitched toward her before I caught it.
“Walk with me,” she said. “Then I won’t be alone.”
The word pressed against my teeth.
Soon.
My phone buzzed again. The screen flashed—three minutes ahead—then snapped back to the same frozen time.
The seam at the end of the pier nudged my heel.
Behind her, the water looked heavier than before, as if it were waiting too.
“Say it,” she whispered.
The lantern’s warmth hovered near my mouth.
I thought of my mother staring at her screen, waiting for a reply I would not send.
I pulled back.
Only a step.
Her grip tightened once—testing. Then loosened.
Not gentle. Not angry. Simply finished.
What the Harbor Did Not Forget
Sound drained until there was nothing but my pulse. Then the harbor snapped back all at once.
Rain struck the planks. Engines groaned to life. The PA resumed:
“Final arrivals will dock at Pier Three. Waiting passengers, please remain behind the line.”
It did not repeat.
The girl was gone.
The lantern was gone.
Only dark water, restless again.
I stumbled home. Salt crusted my sleeve where no water had touched. My wrist carried the faint scent of the sea.
My phone read 9:47.
The last message from my mother had been sent at 9:12.
I did not remember thirty-five minutes passing.
Every Ghost Month, I leave Keelung Harbor before dusk.
Sometimes, on windless nights, my phone vibrates with no notification. The minute freezes.
And somewhere beyond the breakwater, something waits for me to say it.