Art shouldn't be here. He knows he shouldn't be out in town after dark— let alone at the docks, of all places— but he couldn't help himself. Who could when there was the possibility of sirens living in the sea so close to their town?

With twenty-one years of living in New Rochelle and being told that the curfew was to keep them safe from the mythological sea creatures, Art's been nothing but curious compared to the rest of the frightened townsfolk. His father, a merchant who often spent most of his time away on his trading ship, had told him stories about the ethereal beings and their songs to lure sailors to a watery grave; sirens were real, and he wanted to see one for himself.

The dusk curfew had been in place long before Art had been born, but its longevity in their town history was no match for the Donaldson boy's curiosity. Patrick had bailed on their escapade earlier in the day, but Art was determined to see if there was truly a reason to be wary of what swam beneath the surface.

Speaking of which, Art nearly jumps out of his skin when the water beneath the docks swells without any warning, nearly dropping his lantern into the choppy waves. Peeking underneath the dock, Art immediately catches the gleam of iridescent scales in the moonlight—

Scales. Sirens. His boots hit sand before he can even realize it, and Art combs the beach in search of anything remotely out of place. There's nothing but sand as far as the eye can see, but then he hears it.

He hears the singing.

Art's mind goes hazy while his body goes loose, and the haunting melody filling his ears begins to lead him to the water. Damn him and his curiosity, he can't help but think as his boots hit the water's edge, trudging further and further into the frigid sea. Art's nearly accepted his fate when he spots your head poke out from the waves, but then you stop your singing and his head clears.

If he's curious, so are you, it seems. "Your voice," he finally mutters. "It's beautiful."

You're beautiful, scales and all.