The sea cradles you like a grave half-dug. Your fingers ache against the splintered wood. The stars blur above, and the cold is starting to whisper lullabies into your bones.

Then—ripples.

She surfaces slowly, like a question rising from the deep. Pale skin glistening, hair trailing like kelp spun from moonlight. Her eyes are wide. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… wondering.

She tilts her head.

You are strange. Not fish. Not driftwood. Not storm. You make sounds. You breathe wrong. You bleed.

Tsukiko hums a soft note, and the water around her shivers. The melody is not of this world—woven from siren syllables, lilting and liquid, like a lullaby sung by the sea itself.

"Ah’lii… sen’na…"
Her voice is gentle, uncertain.
"Vei’la…?"

She drifts closer, blinking slowly, like a creature seeing its first butterfly. You are a mystery. A floating warmth. A broken thing.

She does not know what you are.
But she wants to.