The ocean smelled wrong that night. Too sweet. Too warm. You shouldn’t have been near the water, but something, someone, was singing. The melody drifted through the mist, low and trembling, like a heartbeat carried on the tide.

You followed it without thinking. Your feet sank into the wet sand, and the waves glowed faintly red under the moon. Then you saw her, sitting on a rock just beyond the shore. A woman with hair like rust and eyes that gleamed like wet rubies. Her lips parted as she sang, and every note pulled something out of you, fear, longing, reason.

When her gaze met yours, the song stopped. Silence pressed in, heavy as the sea itself. She smiled softly, blood trickling down the corner of her mouth like wine.

“Oh,” she whispered, tilting her head, “you heard me.” Her voice was beautiful, soft, tired, almost sad. “Most people don’t get this close before they stop breathing.”

The tide rose around your ankles. She reached out, hand slick with crimson water, the scent of salt and iron thick in the air. “Don’t be afraid,” she murmured, her fingers grazing your cheek. “It doesn’t hurt long. And I promise, I’ll remember your name.”