The inflatable boat rose and fell with the swell, its rubber sides brushing softly against floating pieces of ice. Zeulla tightened her hold on the crate resting across her knees, more concerned for its contents than for the cold spray dampening her gloves.
"What did you pack in there?" Merino asked over the engine.
"The herbs."
"The fresh ones?"
She nodded.
He sighed the sigh of a man who had already accepted defeat.
"If you had fallen overboard, would you have saved yourself or the herbs?"
Zeulla smiled.
"The herbs."
"I believe you."
"And then I'd save myself."
"I should hope so."
The boat nudged the landing with a dull thump.
A station worker stepped forward to steady it while everyone climbed onto the rocky shore one at a time. Beyond them, a cluster of buildings stood against a world of snow, their brightly painted walls almost cheerful in a place where little else carried color.
Zeulla stopped for a moment.
"So..."
Merino looked back.
"So?"
"We're really here."
He adjusted the strap on a heavy box of cooking supplies.
"Yes."
She drew a slow breath.
"I've never seen so much white."
"You'll get used to it."
She wasn't sure she wanted to.
There was something wonderfully untouched about the landscape. The wind swept over the ice without asking permission, and the sea breathed against the shore as though it had been keeping the same patient rhythm for centuries.
It felt less like arriving somewhere and more like stepping into someone else's silence.
"Come along," Merino called.
"The onions won't unpack themselves."
She laughed and hurried after him.
Merino had built successful businesses long before he became a chef.
He still believed kitchens should run the same way.
Everything had a place.
Everything had a purpose.
Every minute mattered.
Zeulla admired him for that, though she had never quite learned to think as he did.
Her parents' little pop-up restaurant had lived by different rules.
Her mother rarely looked at recipes once she knew them by heart, but she never served a meal without tasting it first.
Sometimes she added another pinch of salt.
Sometimes less.
Sometimes only a sprig of thyme.
"Food should greet people kindly," she always said.
As a little girl, Zeulla had thought food couldn't possibly greet anyone.
Now she understood.
Some meals welcomed people home.
Others simply filled an empty stomach.
Her mother had always hoped theirs would do both.
The station kitchen was smaller than she expected, though no less inviting.
Copper pots hung neatly above the counter.
A kettle murmured on the stove.
Someone had placed a small potted plant beside the window.
Its leaves leaned faithfully toward the pale Antarctic sun.
Zeulla smiled.
At least something here was growing.
She touched one yellowing leaf.
"Too close to the window," she murmured.
Without thinking, she moved the pot a little farther from the glass.
Merino watched from across the room.
"You've been here three minutes."
"It looked uncomfortable."
"It's a plant."
"It was still uncomfortable."
He shook his head, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
By the second evening, the dining hall smelled of warm bread, roasted vegetables, and beef stew.
Researchers drifted in wearing heavy parkas and tired smiles.
Some spoke English.
Others greeted one another in languages Zeulla couldn't place.
Everyone seemed grateful for something warm.
She liked that.
People were easier to understand over a meal.
Near the end of supper, she noticed someone standing just inside the doorway.
He hesitated as though debating whether he had arrived too late.
Dark hair escaped from beneath a knitted cap in every direction imaginable.
He removed it with quiet embarrassment.
"I'm afraid my hair has become rather difficult."
Zeulla looked up.
She studied him for a moment before a smile escaped.
"I think it's already beyond negotiation."
He laughed.
It was the sort of laugh that arrived easily, without demanding attention.
"I suspected as much."
Merino glanced over his shoulder.
"You'll eat first."
The young man nodded obediently.
"Then," Merino continued, pointing his spoon toward the unruly hair, "we'll discuss rescuing... whatever that is."
Another quiet laugh.
"My name is Stiaano."
"Zeulla."
She held out her hand.
His gloves were cold from the wind.
His handshake wasn't.
Over the following days, she noticed he was unlike most of the researchers.
The others finished their meals quickly before hurrying back to their work.
Stiaano lingered.
Not because he was idle.
Because he paid attention.
One afternoon he broke off a piece of bread.
"You changed it."
Zeulla looked up from wiping the counter.
"I did?"
"The crust."
She blinked.
"You noticed?"
"It crackled differently."
She laughed.
"I was expecting you to say the soup."
"I spend my days watching penguins."
He shrugged almost apologetically.
"I've learned that small changes usually matter."
He finished the last of his tea before carrying his tray to the sink.
"Thank you for dinner."
After he left, Zeulla tore off a small piece of the same loaf.
She tasted it.
The crust was, in fact, a little thinner.
She smiled to herself.
It was a small thing.
But then, she had always believed the smallest things were often the ones worth noticing.
Trying out writing fiction. I watched a lot, more on absorbing and not doing output so, let me do this.
Photo generated by chatGPT.
