The year was 2021. It was a crisp autumn morning, where the air smelled faintly of salt and the faint hues of sunrise painted the horizon with soft strokes of pink and gold. Ronaldo stepped onto the bustling dock, its proper name being a port or harbor—an expansive hub where both modest and majestic ships gathered. This particular port in New York City was a tapestry of activity. Porters rushed with wooden crates stacked high, sailors shouted orders in gruff, jovial tones, and travelers meandered in awe of the towering vessel docked before them.
The air was alive with a mixture of scents—freshly caught fish from a nearby boat mingling with the faint trace of seaweed and the intoxicating aroma of roasted coffee from a vendor tucked by the pier's edge. Children clutched their parents' hands, their wide eyes reflecting the grandeur of the ship ahead, while a young couple posed for a photograph, the wind teasing the woman's scarf.
Ronaldo stood tall, his suit tailored in a sharp navy hue, and adjusted the brim of his hat, shielding his gaze from the morning sun. Beside him, Victor, his business partner, exuded his usual air of confidence. Victor's wife, Victoria, walked slightly ahead, her presence commanding but softened by the elegance of her pearl necklace glinting against her lavender dress.
The ship loomed large before them, its gleaming white exterior a testament to modern engineering. It had five floors in total, each level designed with precision and purpose. The lower two decks housed the laborers and ship crew, their cabins functional yet humble, with narrow bunks, shared quarters, and the faint clatter of tools and machinery ever-present.
The upper levels were reserved for passengers and business dignitaries. The third floor featured ornate dining halls with mahogany tables and crystal chandeliers, their light catching on rows of spotless glasses and plates neatly stacked in the adjoining kitchens. There were 50 cabins in total, each with plush bedding, dark oak furnishings, and soft rugs that muffled footsteps. A small library, stocked with leather-bound books, nestled in a corner of the fourth floor, while the fifth floor housed the sun deck—a haven for those who sought the ocean breeze and sprawling views.
In the kitchens, Chef Gabriel, a stout man with rosy cheeks and a cheery demeanor, barked orders at his team. His specialty was a delicate seared salmon dish, though his hearty stews and freshly baked bread often earned equal praise.
"Ah, but there's nothing like a ship to inspire enterprise," Victor declared as they boarded, his hand resting on Victoria's elbow.
"Indeed," Ronaldo replied, though his gaze drifted toward the horizon.
As they settled into their routines on the ship, Mr. William arrived—a man in his late forties, impeccably dressed in a gray three-piece suit with a navy tie that complemented his sharp features. His polished shoes reflected the morning light, and his well-groomed beard gave him an air of distinction.
"Ronaldo," William greeted with a firm handshake, "I trust the voyage will be as fruitful as it is scenic."
Before Ronaldo could reply, his attention was seized by a vision of unparalleled beauty. She emerged from the gangway, her blue dress fluttering gently in the breeze. It was a modest yet elegant garment, the kind that cinched at the waist and flowed outward, its fabric dotted with faint floral patterns. Her hair, the color of sunlit chestnuts, cascaded in loose curls down her shoulders.
Her eyes, a shade of cerulean that mirrored the sea, held a quiet curiosity, while her lips—painted a soft rose—curved into a smile that seemed to light the space around her. She moved with an air of grace, her laughter mingling with the rhythm of the waves.
"Good heavens," Ronaldo murmured to himself, though Victor caught his words and smirked.
"A striking creature, is she not?" Victor teased, nudging Ronaldo's arm.
Gathering his courage, Ronaldo stepped forward. "I couldn't help but notice the liveliness in your step," he said, his voice steady yet warm.
The young woman turned, her eyes meeting his. "It seems I must thank the sea for such a compliment," she replied, her voice lilting with amusement. "I am Aana, and this is my father, Charles."
Charles, a stately man with a scholarly demeanor, inclined his head in acknowledgment.
"I am Ronaldo," he said, tipping his hat slightly. "And might I add, Miss Aana, the sea is all the better for your company."
Aana laughed, her eyes sparkling like sunlight on water. "You are too kind, sir. My father and I are here for leisure. I've never sailed before, and the thought of the open ocean is both thrilling and daunting."
"It holds mysteries and wonders alike," Ronaldo replied, his gaze lingering on her a moment longer than necessary.
As the conversation drew to a close, Aana and her father moved to their cabin, which, much to Ronaldo's delight, was situated directly beside his own.
The ship departed shortly after lunch, on October 15, 2021. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden sheen over the waters as the vessel cut through the waves. The season was autumn, with a slight chill carried on the breeze, though the sun provided a comforting warmth.
Above them, the sky was painted in hues of amber and lilac, the clouds sparse and wispy, as though the heavens themselves conspired to create a perfect backdrop for the journey ahead. As the ship ventured farther from the shore, Ronaldo leaned on the railing, the taste of salt in the air mingling with the faint scent of wine from the ship's cargo below.
The evening had fallen, wrapping the ocean in a blanket of serene darkness. The ship gently rocked against the calm winter waters, and the horizon stretched infinitely, adorned by a canopy of glittering stars. Ronaldo, having awakened from his nap, stepped out of his cabin into the crisp evening air.
He found himself drawn to the railing, where the ocean shimmered faintly under the moonlight. The world seemed quieter now, save for the occasional sound of the waves against the hull. As he turned his gaze to the front side of the ship—called the bow, he remembered—a familiar figure stood there, solitary and illuminated by the soft glow of the ship's lanterns. It was Aana.
Her hair, loosely tied, fluttered in the winter breeze as she leaned forward slightly, her gaze fixed on the vast expanse of the ocean. Ronaldo took a deep breath and walked toward her, his steps quiet but deliberate.
"Good evening, Miss Aana," Ronaldo said softly as he approached, pausing just a step behind her.
Startled at first, Aana turned, her features relaxing into a gentle smile when she saw him. "Good evening, Mr. Ronaldo. You startled me."
"My apologies," he said, placing a hand on the railing. "I didn't mean to intrude."
"You are no intruder," Aana replied, turning back to the ocean. "It is pleasant to have company on such a tranquil evening."
"Have you had any snacks this evening?" Ronaldo asked, his voice light and conversational.
Aana shook her head. "No, I was too enchanted by the view. The sea at night has a magic of its own, does it not?"
"It does," Ronaldo agreed. "But perhaps its magic is enhanced by your presence."
Aana turned her head slightly, raising an amused brow. "Are you in the habit of flattering young women, sir?"
"Not at all," Ronaldo replied with a half-smile. "This is my first time speaking with someone as captivating as yourself. It feels like a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence."
Aana laughed, her cheeks flushing faintly. "You are bold, Mr. Ronaldo."
"Bold or truthful, perhaps both," Ronaldo replied with a playful sincerity. "Tell me, is this your first voyage on a ship?"
"It is," she admitted, her voice softening. "I've always longed for adventure, but until now, my studies kept me tethered to the familiar."
"Ah, the life of a student," Ronaldo said. "Which university claims your time and brilliance?"
"Columbia University," Aana replied with pride. "I am pursuing a degree in the fine arts—specifically, theater. And you?"
"Harvard," Ronaldo said, his voice carrying a touch of nostalgia. "I studied economics, though I confess it lacks the romance of the stage."
Aana laughed again, her eyes sparkling. "Perhaps, but it has its own allure. Numbers and strategies can shape empires, after all. Yet, I cannot imagine you without a memorable tale of your university days."
Ronaldo leaned slightly closer, resting his arm on the railing. "I do have one, though it pales in comparison to the drama of your stage life. My thesis defense—an ordeal of such intensity, I thought I might faint before the committee. But when I finished, their applause was unexpected and... profound. It felt like conquering Everest."
Aana's lips curved upward. "A triumph, indeed. Though I fear my tale lacks such glory. My first performance on stage—a scene from Shakespeare—was nearly a disaster. I stood frozen under the lights, my mind an utter blank. It was only when the audience laughed, thinking it intentionally, that I managed to recall my lines and carry on."
"Laughter can be a saving grace," Ronaldo said, his gaze steady on her.
The wind picked up then, teasing Aana's hair from its loose tie. Strands danced around her face, catching the soft light, and Ronaldo found himself transfixed.
"What are you looking at, sir?" Aana asked, her tone both teasing and curious.
"Nothing," Ronaldo replied quickly, though his voice betrayed him. "Or perhaps... everything."
Aana's expression softened, and for a moment, neither spoke.
"Have you someone waiting for you back home?" Aana asked suddenly, breaking the silence. "A fiancée, perhaps?"
Ronaldo shook his head. "No, there is no one. And you, Miss Aana?"
She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the waves. "There was someone—a long-distance courtship, though it ended six months ago. Distance can be cruel to matters of the heart."
"It can," Ronaldo said gently. "And what of your favorite color, Miss Aana?"
"Blue," she answered, her smile returning. "It reminds me of the ocean, of freedom and possibility. And yours?"
"Brown," Ronaldo said without hesitation. "It has a warmth to it, like the earth beneath our feet or the richness of..." He paused, glancing at her dress, "…a beautiful evening gown."
Aana looked down at her brown dress, her cheeks warming. "You have a way with words, Mr. Ronaldo. Do you practice such charm, or is it as spontaneous as it appears?"
Ronaldo smiled. "Only when inspired."
As Aana stepped back, ready to leave, Ronaldo's voice stopped her.
"Wait," he said, his tone low and earnest. "There's something I must say."
He recited softly, each word carrying a weight that lingered in the air:
Her eyes hold the depth of endless tides,
Glistening like stars where the horizon hides.
Her smile, a sunrise on waters still,
A treasure of warmth that nothing can chill.
Aana turned, her eyes wide with wonder, her lips parting slightly as if to speak. Instead, she stepped closer, her gaze softening into something tender.
"Your future partner will be fortunate beyond measure," she said softly, her voice carrying a faint tremor.
And with that, she walked away, leaving Ronaldo standing beneath the stars, a quiet smile playing on his lips as he watched her retreating figure.