On A Family Cruise, My Son Was Laughing. My Daughter-In-Law Was Taking Photos. The Waitress Came Close And Slipped Me A Note Under The Table. It Said: Call For Help. I Stayed Calm. I Tucked The Note And Nodded. Twenty Minutes Later, They Were Tight-Lipped In FRONT OF THE CREW.

I let her pour it, watched her stir in a splash of honey, then slide the cup toward me like it was something sacred. Her tone never changed, but her eyes never left the cup. I held it for a moment.

The ceramic was warm against my fingers. I brought it close, pretended to take a sip, then set it down. She smiled.

Back in my room, the cloudiness returned, worse this time. I sat on the edge of the bed, heart fluttering like a weak moth against a window. My stomach cramped once, then again.

I lay down and closed my eyes, trying to breathe through it. It passed after a while, but a low hum of unease stayed behind. I stood and walked to the mirror.

My face looked pale. Not sick, exactly, but not quite me. I noticed a small tremor in my right hand as I brushed a strand of hair back.

I didn’t remember shaking before this trip. The wind picked up outside. The curtains swayed, and somewhere down the corridor, a door clicked shut.

That night, I barely slept. My mind wandered in and out of strange half dreams. All the while, a quiet question lingered in the back of my mind, refusing to settle.

By sunrise, I knew something was wrong, but I also knew I had to keep pretending it wasn’t. Not yet. Dinner on the third night was quieter.

The tables were arranged in a semicircle around a small piano where a young man played slow jazz. Most passengers had already grown familiar with one another, sharing stories over drinks and desserts. I kept to myself, watching the flicker of candle light catch in the glassear.

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