After his small trades, Shanelingered in the boiler room. Shadows clung to every pipe and valve, and the steady hiss of escaping steam swallowed even the faintest sound.
He leaned against the scalding iron wall, feeling the heat scorch through the rough fabric of his shirt—a sharp reminder that warmth aboard this ship always came at a cost.
The air here was worse than in third class, thick with coal dust, machine oil, and sweat, each inhalation like sandpaper scraping his lungs.
"Shane," came a rasping voice, weathered by decades at sea and cheap tobacco. Old Parker, hunched and trembling, tottered forward, carrying a small gray bundle that glowed oddly in the dim light filtering through the pipes.
"For Mary," Parker said, coughing. "It's cold at night on the Atlantic." He handed over the hand-knitted scarf. Shane's fingers brushed the wool, discovering a tiny patch of expertly repaired stitches—a subtle care from Parker's wife.
Without hesitation, Shane handed the old man a small bottle of whiskey from his cloth bag, slipping half a packet of sugar cubes into his rough palm.
"For tea," Shane whispered. Parker's cloudy eyes widened, veins standing out on his gnarled hands. He patted Shane's arm, muttering, "May God bless you and your sister," before hiding the gifts in his worn coat and shuffling away. Shane noticed his steps seemed lighter, as if a heavy burden had lifted.
After a few more small trades, Shane counted his dwindling earnings, tucking a roll of crumpled banknotes into his inner pocket. At the bottom of his bag, two bottles of brandy glimmered quietly, alongside a packet of medical alcohol.
His fingers paused over a bottle of 12-year-old aged liquor, reserved for the ship's steward, Thomas. Memories of a damp, cold evening five days ago surfaced—the sour whiskey smell, Thomas's gruff County Cork accent, and his rough hands accepting Shane's small gesture of help.
Shane packed up, ready to leave the oppressive boiler room, when a tall man emerged from behind a pile of discarded valves. His English was broken, hesitant:
"Sir… do you… have medicine? Anti-inflammatory… for…" He paused, producing a polished silver pocket watch.
Shane studied him carefully. The man wore a coarse, ill-fitting tweed suit, frayed at the cuffs, and his boots were worn but clean. A small Virgin Mary pendant swung at his chest. His posture, open and upright, hinted at military training. A scar ran from his earlobe to his jaw—a remnant of combat.
The man's tired eyes met Shane's, calm yet edged with urgent desperation. Silence stretched across the steam-filled room.
"Not right now," Shane said finally. "But tomorrow, same time, I can help."
The man exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "My name is Volker. Tomorrow… I will come. Thank you." He withdrew into the shadows, a quiet dignity in his movements.
Shane turned his attention back to his bag. Medicine was precious aboard the ship, nearly as valuable as gold, and his supplies were nearly exhausted after days of small trades. Yet the memory of his own past struggles—the nights soaked in rain, desperate for help—gnawed at him.
The next day, Shane lay in wait among the crisscrossing pipes. From a distance, Volker paced, restless and anxious. Shane stepped out only after confirming the path was clear and handed over two bottles of medicine—aspirin for pain and iodine for disinfecting wounds.
Volker's practiced hands inspected the bottles carefully, confirming their contents. Then, Shane offered his ultimate safeguard: a small bottle of medical-grade honey ointment and a roll of sterile gauze.
"This will help with deep infection," Shane instructed softly. "Disinfect first, then apply the ointment, and wrap carefully. Keep it clean."
The tall, scarred man trembled slightly, unaccustomed to receiving help without strings attached. His voice shook: "I… I will remember this. Thank you, Mr. Shane… truly."
Shane waved him off. "Take care of your family member. That's what matters."
Volker's eyes glistened as he tucked the supplies into his coat, his shoulders seemingly lighter. He turned and left, the maze of pipes swallowing his tall figure.
Shane exhaled slowly, closing his knife and wiping sweat from his palms. The tension in the boiler room lingered, thick as the steam, but a small flicker of satisfaction warmed him.
"Mary," Shane whispered, retrieving his sister from behind a stack of barrels. "Let's go back."
Cradling her gently, he slipped back into the shadows. The roar of the boilers continued, but in the hidden corners of the ship, quiet acts of kindness had begun to ripple through the crowded hold.