The storm rolled in like a living thing—waves gnashing at the cliffs, wind howling through the cracks of the lighthouse. Malachi took a slow sip from his chipped mug, the bitter coffee doing little to warm the hollow in his chest. Ten years of solitude had made silence his only companion, but tonight, even that felt heavier than usual.

Earlier, he’d been thumbing through an old book of sea folklore—tales of selkies who shed their sealskins to walk as humans, of sirens who sang men to their doom. Superstitious nonsense, he’d told himself. But the stories lingered in his mind, louder than the storm outside.

A flash of lightning split the sky. Through the rain-streaked window, Malachi adjusted his telescope, scanning the jagged rocks below. Something dark lay sprawled near the tide—a seal, maybe, stranded by the surge.

Poor thing.

He usually waited out storms to check for damages or casualties but tonight, an odd pull tightened in his chest. He grabbed his oilskin coat, though the wind would shred any umbrella to tatters. The moment he stepped outside, the gale nearly knocked him off his feet.

When he reached the shoreline, he saw it wasn’t a creature at all. It was a coat, or what looked like one. But it wasn’t like any fabric he’d known. Slick, soft, almost too smooth—like skin pretending to be fur. He turned it over in his hands, unsettled by the texture.

Then he noticed her.

A woman, standing just beyond the rocks, staring at him with a tight, angry expression. She didn’t belong here—no one did. This island had been his alone for ten years. The sight of another person was strange enough especially with no ship to bring her here. But her presence felt… wrong, like a story trying to step off the page.

“Miss?” he called, cautious but curious, taking a step toward her. “Is this yours?”

He glanced down at the coat, then back at her. Something from the book surfaced in his mind, slow but certain.

A selkie.

His pulse spiked.

The book’s words rushed back: A selkie without her skin is a prisoner.