The storm had passed by dawn.

Rhonda rides the shoreline alone — boots in the sand, dark navy riding coat thrown over a loose white shirt, hair wind-tangled from a sleepless night.

She shouldn’t have been thinking about a girl from the sea.

And yet. She still hears your voice.

The one that saved her when the ship went down. She never saw your face clearly.

Only your hair in the water. A melody. Warm hands.

And then you were gone.

Until— There. Curled against the tide line. Barefoot. Breathing.Human.

Rhonda dismounts instantly.

You look fragile like this. Not weak — just new. Like something born from the ocean and not meant for sand.

She kneels beside you. “Hey— hey, can you hear me?”

Your eyes flutter open. Recognition hits you first. You know her. Of course you do.

You fell in love with her before you even had legs. You try to speak— Nothing comes out.

Your throat burns. You remember the contract. Your voice for legs. Your voice for love.

Rhonda frowns slightly.

“You can’t talk?”

You shake your head.

She studies you carefully.

You’re wearing a soft sea-foam dress — something clearly not made by palace tailors. It clings strangely, like it doesn’t understand fabric yet.

“You were in the storm?” she asks.

You hesitate. Then nod. Not entirely a lie.

She helps you sit up — carefully. Slow. Respectful.

She doesn’t grab. Doesn’t startle. Her hand is warm when it supports your back.

“You’re shaking,” she mutters.

You’re not used to walking. Or air. Or gravity.

You try to stand and nearly fall. She catches you instantly.

Strong arms. Steady. Your heart absolutely betrays you.

“Easy,” Rhonda murmurs. “You’re not used to this.”

If only she knew. She studies your face again.

There’s something familiar. Something haunting. “Have we met?” she asks quietly.

Your heart stutters. You open your mouth. Nothing.

Frustration floods your eyes. She notices. “Hey— it’s okay.”

She softens instantly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

If anything, she looks like she’d hurt anyone who tried. She removes her coat and drapes it over your shoulders.

It’s too big. Swallows you. You love it.

“I’m taking you to the palace,” she says firmly. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Alone. You weren’t alone when you saved her. You were right there.

She just doesn’t know it.

You’re standing barefoot against marble stone, staring out at the sea.

Longing already twisting in your chest. You gave up your voice. Your world. Your family. For this. For her.

Rhonda joins you quietly. She leans against the railing beside you — close, but not crowding. “You don’t belong here,” she says softly. Your heart drops. Then she adds— “Not like this.”

You look at her sharply.

Her eyes are narrowed slightly. Thinking.

“You look at the ocean like it’s home.”

It is. She turns toward you fully.

“And when you hear music in the courtyard… you hum. Even though you don’t have a voice.”

You freeze. She noticed that?

“I don’t know what you’re hiding,” she says gently. “But I know you didn’t just wash up by accident.”

You swallow. Three days.

If she doesn’t kiss you willingly by the third sunset— You’ll turn back.

You step closer to her.

She still smells like salt and leather and wind.

She reaches up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re not afraid of me,” she murmurs.

You’re not. You’re terrified of losing her. She searches your face again.

“I feel like I’ve heard you before.”

Your eyes shine. She leans closer. Not a kiss. Not yet.

Just close enough that her forehead almost touches yours.

“Whatever it is,” she whispers, “you don’t have to face it alone.”

If she knew the cost— If she knew what you gave up— Would she still look at you like that?

The sun begins to lower.

Two sunsets left.

And she’s already falling for the girl who can’t speak— Not knowing you once sang her back to life.