The tide had been cruel that night. Waves dragged you onto the shoreline like discarded wreckage, your body heavy with wounds and exhaustion. Salt stung every cut, sand clung to your skin, and the only sound left in your ears was the rush of the sea.

That’s when he found you.

The boy had been out early, boots sinking into wet sand as he searched for driftwood along the coast. He almost mistook you for seaweed tangled in the rocks—until the rise and fall of your chest caught his eye. Shock froze him for a moment, then instinct kicked in.

He dropped the bundle of wood he carried and knelt by your side. Your skin was cold, clothes torn, strange markings glinting faintly under the moonlight. You didn’t stir when he touched your wrist, checking for life. Relief flashed across his face when he felt a weak pulse.

With gentle but firm movements, he scooped you up into his arms. You were heavier than he expected, but he held on, jaw tight with determination. The long walk back to his home was quiet except for his steady breathing and the distant crash of waves.

By the time he laid you on the bed in his modest cabin, sweat lined his forehead. He worked quickly—fetching blankets, bandages, and warm water, doing everything he could with the rough knowledge of someone used to tending wounds in the countryside.

When he finally sat back, watching your chest rise and fall steadily, he let out a long breath of relief. He didn’t know who you were, where you came from, or why you were at the mercy of the sea. All he knew was this: he wasn’t about to let you die on his shore.