The ocean was black that night, no stars, no moon, only the sound of waves and the quiet groan of wood as your boat drifted through the mist. You didn’t remember when the fog rolled in, or when the air started to taste like salt and sorrow.

Something brushed your leg beneath the water. Then again, softer, almost gentle. You leaned over the side, squinting into the darkness. That’s when you saw her.

At first, she looked like a woman half submerged, long hair flowing in the tide like sea grass, eyes pale and shimmering faintly blue. But as she rose closer, the illusion broke. Her skin was streaked with coral and barnacle, her ribs tangled in seaweed, faintly glowing with trapped light. Tiny fish darted in and out of the hollow spaces in her body.

Her voice came next, a song, low and sweet, carrying over the waves. It wasn’t human anymore. It sounded like something that belonged to the sea itself: soothing, mournful, and heavy enough to make your eyes sting.

“Little one,” she whispered, though her mouth barely moved. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

You wanted to move, to answer, but the song wrapped around your thoughts like chains. For a moment, it felt like warmth, like comfort. Then her eyes flicked downward, and you saw the broken bodies sinking slowly in the water below her, faces serene, hands reaching upward as though still chasing the light.

Her voice softened, almost apologetic. “Rest now. The sea forgives more kindly than the world ever did.”