the return trip

Marcus stood at the shore of the Acheron, watching the other shades shuffle forward with their single coins. Amateur hour, he thought, fingering the small stack of ancient drachmae in his palm. Six years of classical studies hadn’t been entirely useless after all.

The ferryman’s boat carved through the dark water, pole striking an unknowable bottom with metronomic precision. As the vessel drew near, Marcus could see Charon’s weathered face beneath his hood, expression unchanged since the first soul crossed these waters.

When his turn came, Marcus stepped into the wooden boat with practiced confidence, as if he’d done this a thousand times before. He hadn’t, of course—you only die once. Usually.

"Two coins," he said, voice steady despite being, well, dead. "Round trip."

Charon’s pole stopped mid-stroke. The ferryman’s eyes, like distant stars glimpsed through millennia of dust, fixed upon Marcus with newfound interest.

"None ask for return," the ferryman rasped, his voice the sound of autumn leaves crumbling to nothing.

"I’m asking now." Marcus held out the coins. "Unless there’s a policy against it?"

A sound like wind through ancient caves might have been Charon’s laugh. "No policy. None think to ask." The ferryman’s skeletal fingers plucked both coins from Marcus’s palm. "But passage paid is passage earned."

The journey across was everything the poets had described—the wailing winds, the shifting shadows, the weight of eternity pressing down. But Marcus spent it studying the ferryman’s technique, the way he guided the boat through currents no living eye could see.

When they reached the far shore, Marcus didn’t disembark with the other shades. "I believe," he said, "I paid for a return trip."

Charon nodded, and for the first time in uncounted ages, the ferry turned back before reaching the far shore. As they approached the land of the living, Marcus could have sworn he saw amusement in those stellar eyes.

"Clever one," Charon murmured as Marcus stepped onto familiar soil, his body feeling suddenly heavy and real. "But remember—third trip is one-way only."

Marcus nodded, patting his pocket where he kept one last coin. Just in case. After all, you never know when you might need a reliable ferryman.