“O mare, mare, portami via, culla le mie lacrime come fai con la luna.”

The children sang after sunset, their voices carrying over the waves in old melodies—the kind passed through generations. You asked your aunt once what they meant, but she only smiled.

“For those who listen,” she said.

Your aunt was kind, sure. She hugged you tight and shoved food in front of you to fix the mess in your head. She put you to work to—hands in the dirt, lifting crates, character-building she called it. A distraction so your head wouldn’t spiral into your parents’ divorce.

And for a while, visiting her worked.

Summer in Italy tasted like salt and lemon rinds, like the sweat that clung to your skin after long days under the sun.

But at night?

You noticed things.

Tiny things—bits of shell, dried seaweed, a fish bone. At first, you thought it was the wind. Maybe some bird. But they always landed right on your window ledge.

You stopped questioning it.

Stopped questioning the way the children sang, waiting for something to sing back.

You didn’t ask.

Didn’t ask when your parents voices pleaded on the phone—Who do you want to stay with?

Didn’t think when your feet moved faster than your thoughts, past the houses, past the world until all that was left was the open stretch of sand and the burn in your chest.

Didn’t think when you collapsed onto the dock, pressing your palms into your eyes, willing the tears away, willing the world away, willing yourself to just—

Breathe.

The waves lapped gently against the wooden posts. The salt air cooled your skin. Your breath steadied.

And then something moved, pushing up from the waves, water dripping from a shape that was only a suggestion of a man—limbs too long, skin shifting with an iridescent sheen, webbed fingers bracing himself against the dock. Then tossed a fish at you.

The hell?

He wasn’t trying to solve your problems. He just wanted to take the weight off. Like he understood what it felt like to be caught between two places. Helpless.