Miles away, the saltwater wind carried the faint echoes of the commotion across the harbor. Rose Duncomb stood on the wheathered planks of the docks, her sturdy black dress whipping violently across the ankles. She pulled her linen shawl tighter against the chill, her eyes fixed on the horizon the fisherman’s modest vessel fought the swelling tide.
He was a man of the sea, quiet and unyielding, much like those islands they called home. As the boat finally bumped against the pier, Rise saw the exhaustion etched into his features — a profound weariness that had less to do with the ocean and more to with the growing murmur of rebellion sweeping across Boston.
”They are turning the harbor into a graveyard for the King’s cargo,” he murmured later in that evening, his rough hands wrapped around a tin cup of warm broth. The heart fire cast dancing shadows across their smaill secluded cabin.
Aspiring writer Freedom Stillwell 
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