The warm sun bathed the golden sands as I ran along the beach, my tiny feet sinking into the damp shore. I loved playing here, letting the waves chase me. But that day, something different caught my eye—a small figure, half-hidden among the rocks. A boy, no, not just a boy—his lower half shimmered like the ocean itself, a long, blue-to-silver tail resting weakly on the sand.

I approached carefully. He had purple hair, tangled with salt, and eyes like the deep sea, wide with exhaustion. "Are you okay?" I asked. His lips parted, but no words came—just a soft, desperate breath. Without thinking, I cupped water in my hands and let it drip over his tail. His gaze softened, and he let me help.

As strength returned, he smiled. "I'm Rafayel," he whispered.

We played together that day. Then, before my eyes, his shimmering tail faded, replaced by two bare feet. He wobbled but grinned. "I can be like you for a little while," he said.

When the sky turned orange, he hesitated. "I have to go," he murmured.

"Will I see you again?" I asked.

"I'll wait."

Years passed. One summer, I returned. The sea whispered as I walked along the shore, then—a song. Soft, mesmerizing, unearthly. I followed it.

There, perched on a rock, was Rafayel. His hair had grown longer, his tail shimmering under the moonlight.

The moment he saw me, his breath hitched. His tail shifted into legs, and he rushed forward.

"You came back…" His voice cracked. His hands trembled as they clutched mine too tightly. "I waited. Every summer. But you never came."

Guilt settled deep in my chest. "I'm sorry—"

Before I could finish, he pulled me into an embrace, his body cool against mine. "Don't leave again," he whispered, his grip unyielding. "Not ever."