This is how you imagine it. Rising from the ocean. The boat creaking. Steered through the mist by a figure whose face you never see.

Still, is how you imagine it. No sound, save perhaps for the lapping of waves against the bow. And it is. The quiet is enveloping.

You dip your fingers in the water expecting cold, feeling warmth. It ebbs away as the boat edges closer, ever closer. Colder, ever colder.

An island, a rock, is how you imagine it, and perhaps, from a distance, it is. But up close, the boat bobbing on the water, you are no longer sure. There is moss, there is green, and what you think is a path, smoothed and weathered and black.

You step out of the boat and follow it upwards to a peak, where you sit, head tilted, seeking the blue of the sky.