"Feeling better this morning, John?" Tilly asked, filling his cup as he took his place across from the Captain on the long wooden table. It was a rough table tucked back in an alcove adjoining the big kitchen. The Captain took his meals back here even when the restaurant was open. Which at 5:30 am, it presently wasn't. It would open at 11 a.m. with the Catch of the Day Special technically being the catch of yesterday. Tilly refreshed the Captain's cup before sitting the pot down on the quilted trivet.

"Yes, much," he lied, trying to put on an expression as calm as the early morning bay. "Sorry, I missed dinner," he said as she returned to the kitchen to plate up their breakfast. "The water was rough yesterday, and it took me a while to recover."

"You didn't say anything about it," the Captain remarked as Tilly placed plates loaded with pancakes smothered with butter and syrup and several thick-cut slices of ham before them. "But you did work like a man possessed." The Captain prepared to dig in. "I thought you got all that out of your system the first two weeks on the water."

"Guess not," John replied, following suit as Tilly sat down to join them. Full mouths were good conversation stoppers, and the questions and comments of his breakfast companions made him uneasy. He took a bite of his pancakes; the maple syrup was especially thick in his mouth. He took a gulp of coffee. "Looks like today will be a better day, though," he ventured, eager to steer the conversation in another direction. But Tilly said nothing and unfortunately, not even the Captain felt compelled to offer a single weather prognostication.

It didn't bode well.

"I knew back then you were a runnin' from somethin'," the Captain said. "Somethin' in here," he tapped the side of his head, "as much as anything out there. But I thought you'd made some peace with it." He bit off a chunk of ham and chewed thoughtfully before again pinning John with his gaze. "What's changed, John?" he asked. "Have you remembered what got you into the water that night?"

John's breath caught, and he heard Tilly's quiet reprimand at the directness of the question. He glanced between them; were they worried that a returned memory might implicate their nephews somehow? But he saw no wariness in their eyes, no suspicion. Just concern. For him. He felt his throat tighten. He owed these people everything; they had given him safe harbor when he had nowhere else on earth to go. Tilly had nursed him back to health and given him a home; the Captain had given him a job and a purpose. He didn't care what their nephews had done, did or didn't do-it would never take away from what they'd done for him or diminish his appreciation for them. He owed them everything, including the truth.

"No, I haven't remembered what happened, but I have remembered something. A name. Of someone from...before."

"But not yours?" The Captain asked. John knew it was strange he'd remember the name of someone from his past while his own name remained a blank. He could tell him his name was Neal, but it seemed...premature. Plus, he hadn't remembered it. He'd been told. So he just shook his head.

"No matter," Tilly said, shooting her husband a look. You've remembered something," she encouraged. "That means the rest will come along in time. So what about this name? Is it a he or a she?"

"He." He could tell she'd hoped it would be otherwise.

"Family?" Her tone was hopeful.

"I don't think so," John replied. "But friend, maybe." That seemed to appease her a bit.

"Do you have any idea how to find him?" The Captain inquired. "Where to look?"

"I remembered his phone number," he confessed, "and I called him; he's coming here." The two stared at him in disbelief. "I'm having dinner with him tonight."

After a shocked silence, Tilly managed a response. "That's wonderful, John," she said with a matter-of-fact nod. I told you it would come back. It looks like you are on the verge of finding what you've lost."

Yes, and the thought of it brought the usual mix of conflicting emotions.

"No wonder you've been out of sorts," the Captain muttered, returning to his breakfast. "I was worried your past might've caught up with you, but here you are, a callin' it up to have dinner with you."

John couldn't help but laugh but quickly sobered. "I go back and forth about wanting to know and being afraid to find out," he confessed, his eyes dropping to his plate. He picked at his food with his fork. "Once I know, I can't unknow, you know? It keeps me up at night."

"As I can see," Tilly said, motioning with her fork towards the mural he'd worked on until past two. "You've just about finished. No matter what you find out now, John, you can't leave us before it's done, you know."

He smiled at her, but the thought of leaving her and the Captain caused a pain in his heart. This was the only life he knew, the only home he knew. The only family he knew.

"I promise I'll finish it, Tilly, no matter what happens," he promised. "So, how do you like how it's turning out?"

"I like this one better than the first," she said. The first is extraordinary; I can almost feel the deck shifting under my feet when I look at it. But this one," her brow furrowed a bit. "I feel peace, see the promise of a new day. It reminds me of the verse from the good book that promises new mercies each morning. It's...hopeful."

His eyes flew back to the mural. It certainly hadn't started out that way. The first mural he'd done he'd named Tossed About because it summed up how he felt about everything: himself, his life, and his past. When he'd begun the second, he'd thought to paint the solitary vessel setting out to face unknown dangers beyond the harbor. He'd wanted to use color and stroke to subtly illustrate the foreboding loneliness of facing the unknown, day in and day out. But as he'd worked on it over the last few weeks, it had taken on a different mood. The pink harbingers of rough waters had softened into pale peach and the lightest of yellows. Why, he wondered? What caused the change? But as soon as he wondered, he knew.

Peter. He'd put a name to the face, and then he'd called him. Because, in his dreams, Peter represented help. Safety. Hope.

He tore his eyes away from the mural to find Tilly looking at him, her eyes as tender as they'd been when she'd comforted him after his terrible confession.

"Hope is the best of things, John," she said gently. "Don't be so afraid of it."

Hope. The word slammed into him a second time. She was right; just the thought that he had a good life out there, people out there who were good, who missed him, who loved him...

He felt his eyes sting and his chest tighten. When the time came, he was sure the truth of the matter would crush him.