The Last Ferryman

The river between worlds had no name on any map, but everyone in the border town called it the Between. Boats crossed daily: paper barges of dreams, rafts of forgotten promises, ferries carrying souls who missed their connecting lives. Regulations were loose until the administration realized how many crossings went unrecorded. They issued notices: ferries must be licensed, manifests submitted. Most ferrymen quit rather than learn bureaucracy. Only Jae stayed. He was the last ferryman with a permit, a battered boat, and a sense of duty he couldn’t explain.

His passengers were varied. A woman carrying a suitcase of sounds she’d collected in childhood. A man in a hospital gown clutching a IV pole, insisting he was not dead yet. A child with pockets full of stones, each one an apology. Jae asked no questions. He took payment in stories, because paper money dissolved on the Between and digital currency confused the current. He kept a ledger filled with titles: “The day I said no and meant it,” “The soup that saved a marriage.”

One evening, a stern inspector boarded, clipboard in hand. “This route is no longer viable,” she said. “We’re building a bridge.” Jae laughed. Bridges were for the living, straight lines across questions. The Between was not a gap to be solved; it was a place to be accompanied. The inspector didn’t care. She had a project timeline and a list of ferries to decommission. “You are the last. Turn in your oars.”

That night, the river grew restless. The current carried whispers: don’t stop. Jae considered retirement. His back ached. His boat leaked. But he had a queue of souls with no patience for bridge tolls. He decided to make one more week of crossings, ledger open, then decide. He posted a notice at the dock: “Last week of service. Pay in stories.” The line stretched.

On the third night, the inspector returned with engineers and a blueprint. The bridge would land exactly where the dock stood. Jae invited them aboard. “Ride once,” he said. “See what you’re replacing.” She hesitated, then stepped in. The river accepted her weight with a sigh.

They pushed off. Fog rose, thick as felt. Shapes floated by: a child’s bicycle, a wedding veil, a deflated balloon. Jae narrated quietly. “Between is where things go when they’re not done but can’t continue. My job is to listen them across.” The inspector frowned, hugging her clipboard tighter. Mid-river, a storm brewed not of rain but of missed moments. It rocked the boat. Jae steadied them, oars firm. He asked the inspector for a story as payment. She opened her mouth, closed it, then whispered, “I turned down a scholarship because my father needed help. I never told anyone. I’ve been building bridges ever since, over things I never crossed.” The river calmed, as if satisfied.

When they reached the far bank, the inspector stepped onto soil that felt both new and familiar. She looked back at the river, at Jae, at the ledger. “Maybe the bridge can have stairs down to a dock,” she said quietly. “Optional crossing.” The engineers exchanged looks. Jae grinned.

The bridge was built months later, a sleek arc over the Between. It had an odd feature: halfway across, a stairway led down to a small floating platform where Jae moored. People could choose: walk over in minutes, or sit with Jae and float, paying with stories. Many chose speed. Enough chose the boat. Jae’s back still ached, but he had help now. The inspector sometimes joined him, clipboard abandoned, listening to apologies in stone form.

Jae updated his ledger’s title: “Ferries and Bridges: Crossings by Choice.” When he finally retired, he donated the ledger to the town library. The bridge stayed, the dock stayed, and a new ferryman took up the oars, trained not just in rowing but in the art of listening to those who weren’t ready to sprint into the next life.