This is my post on #freewriters3049 #dailyprompt ferry across the river of death hosted by 
The mist over the River Acheron didn’t drift; it lingered like a heavy, cold breath.
Elias stood on the muddy bank, the silver coin burning a hole in his spectral palm. He wasn't afraid—fear was a luxury of the living—but the silence was unsettling. It was a weight that pressed against his chest, devoid of birdcall or the rustle of wind.
Then, the prow emerged.
The skiff was carved from wood that looked like charred bone, slicing through the water without a single ripple. At the helm stood Charon. He wasn't the skeleton of storybooks, but a figure of weathered granite and ancient, tired eyes. He didn't speak; he simply held out a hand calloused by eons of rowing.
Elias placed the obol in the palm. The contact was ice-cold.
As they pushed off, the shore of the living vanished into a gray blur. The river itself was thick, humming with the low vibrations of a thousand lost whispers. Elias looked over the side and saw faces beneath the surface—not screaming, just drifting in the long sleep of the forgotten.
"Does it ever end?" Elias asked, his voice sounding thin.
Charon’s oars hit the water with a rhythmic thrum-clack. For the first time, the ferryman looked at him. "The river doesn't end," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones. "Only the journey does."
In the distance, a pale light began to bleed through the fog. It wasn't the sun, but something softer—the glow of the Far Shore. Elias felt the heaviness of his memories begin to detach, floating away like autumn leaves. By the time the keel scraped the dark sand of the Underworld, he was ready to step out.