For so much, how shall we repay?

It was a question Belfast was familiar with. The motto of her namesake ship and namesake city. The place where she was born—in a fashion.

She didn't have a childhood and didn't need to pretend she had one. If anything else, she'd prefer that to fabricated memories—happy but painful once you know the truth.

But this child, she would have one. Peaceful, joyous, loving, and most importantly, real.

It was how she would repay the blessings she was given.

The miracles she had experienced.

The love that she had received.

She had her mother's eyes, her father's hair color, the name of someone her parents respected, and a future of her own.

A future that would be of her choosing, without the weight of any legacy.

If Belfast could be a little selfish, she wished it wouldn't be like hers.


The girl had never been to Belfast before, but now she looked like she was born there, like she had always been there.

Elizabeth didn't need to be told not to run. Her girl preferred to dance and skip on the pavement, her flats tapping along the concrete.

It only took her first visit for her to be fascinated by the Belfast Harbour and the vast expanse that was the Irish Sea—of the ships that came and went, the people whose livelihoods were tied to them, and the waters beyond.

Belfast was more than happy to indulge, to give the child something to remember, something to look back to in years to come.

And for herself, a reason to never look back.

To her "birth," her battles, losses, guilt, grief, anger. At things she did and couldn't do.

She'd rather look around and look ahead.

Look after the ones that mattered the most.

Elizabeth was curious and gregarious. She'd talk to anyone who caught her attention.

Like that one captain whose ship had just docked and who, fortunately, didn't mind getting pestered. That the girl was courteous helped. She had been taught well.

Or that sailor who seemed to have had too much fun at the pub but was happy to entertain the girl and left her a parting gift of sweets.

Or that elderly lady who was waiting for her son's return from the other side of the world.

Or that boy her age who was too shy to say anything and kept his head low, somewhat reminiscent of her father, but was as interested in ships as she was. It was rather unfortunate that his parents took him home when he was just starting to open up more.

Even a wandering cat was worthy of her attention, even if the animal apparently wasn't too keen on socializing with humans at first.

Yet she was always polite, never pushing, and it was reciprocated.

They talked about diverse things. Experiences were shared, and dreams were told, with a bit of wisdom here and there.

Belfast was alright with it. It was a relief and a joy to see. Maybe they will forget her in a day or two, but the girl will remember.

She hoped Elizabeth had made their day, even if only a little, just like they had made hers.

"You know what, mummy? They all said I'm pretty!"

"Oh, do they now, Lizzie?" Belfast asked, even though she knew. She listened, after all—but if her girl was eager to share, why should she ruin it?

"Uh-huh! Pretty and polite, too!"

"Yes, indeed, you are."

"So we're the same, mummy!"

Something in how they were spoken, the way Elizabeth looked at her—happiness and pride and the innocence behind them all—had Belfast pausing as she was about to stroke the girl's hair.

"Mummy?"

Instead of what she'd wanted to do, Belfast hoisted the girl in her arms. She gasped, but soon, her giggles mingled with the wind, followed by her mother's own.

"That's right, Lizzie. We are."

She didn't let go for a long time—until she realized they should be heading back.

Elizabeth was ever obedient, and not only because of the promise that they would return the next day.

She took her hand but was not content with walking for long.

"Mummy, do the reel with me!"

"With no music?" Belfast chuckled. Not that it would actually be a problem.

"Just imagine it!"

Being a maid who was used to keeping up appearances and a dignified front meant nothing when it came to her daughter.

And besides, she was the one who taught her.

So they danced to an imaginary song, their steps making a tune of their own against the stone.

Elizabeth would sometimes stumble but never fall, and Belfast was ever patient.

She caught glimpses of bemusement, curiosity, delight, and probably even jealousy from passersby, but she couldn't afford to pay them any mind.

She must keep going because her daughter didn't want to stop yet.

Neither did she.

She will make every moment count and worth the while.

And not just until the song would fade away and the steps wind down.