The air in the port is always thick,
salt and the smell of rotting fish
and that’s where I saw him,
a silhouette against the flickering neon
of a distant bar.

A jolt of recognition,
cold and sharp, went through me.
His face was worn,
etched with lines
the sea carves into men,
but the eyes were the same.

We had met before,
on a different continent,
under a blistering sun.
It was a transaction,
brief and silent,
that had left me with a small fortune
and a permanent chill.

I froze, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs.
To speak would be to acknowledge the shared,
dangerous past.

To run would be an admission of guilt.
So I just stood, trapped in the gloom.
His gaze held mine, not with threat,
but with a weary understanding.

He saw the memory flash in my eyes,
saw the fear.
Slowly, deliberately,
he gave a single, grave nod.
No smile. No words.

It was a confirmation,
a dismissal all at once.
He knew.
And in that silent exchange,
I knew he would keep the secret,
just as I would keep his.

We turned away from each other,
two ghosts swallowed again by the dark.