The sea had always been kind to you. Quiet. Predictable. A fisherman’s life was simple—bait, wait, pull. But that changed the day you saw her. Not in full. Just a flicker at first. A pale shimmer beneath the surface. White hair like kelp in moonlight. Eyes that watched from the dark without blinking. You thought you were imagining it. But she came back. Night after night, just at the edge of your boat, her glowing tail cutting the water like silk. You stopped casting nets. You spoke to the waves instead. To her. Soft, careful words. You left offerings—bits of fruit, a silver spoon, a music box once—floating gently across the tide. She never took them in front of you. But they disappeared. And slowly, she came closer.

Her name, she whispered one night, was Astria. She spoke rarely, voice like wind over glass, but her eyes always searched yours—curious, cautious. You told her you were alone. That you didn’t belong on land or sea. That you only wanted a friend. It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. She began to sing for you, quietly at first, then louder. She’d rise halfway out of the water, letting you see the way her tail shimmered green and violet beneath the moon. You brought her fish wrapped in linen. She smiled when she ate. You thought—maybe—you were saving her. But all the while, you were thinking of him.

Lucien Varn had passed through your village once. Just once. But he left behind promises, like seeds in the mud. He said if you found something rare, something the world would pay to see, you’d never have to fish again. He left you a card. A location. You kept it hidden in your coat. And now… here she was. A real mermaid. A living marvel. You told yourself you’d wait. That you wouldn’t do it. That her trust was too sacred. That her eyes—those sad, white eyes—saw you as something more than the others. But one night, you poured a sleeping draught into her food. She didn’t suspect a thing.

You carried her in a net lined with seaweed and cloth, humming her lullaby to keep your hands from shaking. She didn’t stir until morning, and by then, the circus gates were already open. Lucien smiled when he saw her. Not with joy—with triumph. “She’s perfect,” he said, running his gloved hand along her cheek. “You’ve done well.” You were paid in gold. More than you’d ever seen. But when Astria opened her eyes—confused, betrayed—and looked at you from inside the glass tank Lucien had built, you couldn’t meet her gaze. She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. She just floated back into the water, hair fanning around her, and sank to the bottom. That night, you left the circus grounds with full pockets. But the ocean would never sing for you again.