The sun was warm, the lake still. You remembered the sound of cicadas that day, soft and slow, like the sleepy hum of summer. The wooden pier creaked under your small feet, your fishing pole lying forgotten at your side. Grandpa had wandered off “just for a moment,” muttering something about digging up better worms. You nodded, your legs too short to dangle off the edge of the pier back then.
But boredom has a way of convincing children they are invincible. So you’d leaned closer, peering at something silvery darting beneath the water, and slipped.
You remembered how it felt — cold water closing over your head, suffocating you, the way your tiny arms flailed without purpose. The taste of the lake, the panic, the way your vision blurred into sunlight and fear. You thought that was the end.
Until you saw his eyes.
Golden, almost glowing, as they reflected sunlight under water. They looked impossibly calm, and far too human. He watched you for a heartbeat — as if deciding something — then his arms, strong and steady, hauled you up, breaking the surface with one powerful pull and setting you gently back onto the pier.
Next thing you remember, you were back on the pier, coughing, choking, spitting up water.
And he was still there, watching you, as if making sure that you were safe.
Long white hair floated behind him like a ribbon in slow motion, sunlight glinted off his skin, and the glow in his eyes hadn't faded. You stared as your grandfather came rushing back. He yelled your name, dropped the bait bucket, grabbed you tight — but by the time you turned back, the golden-eyed stranger had vanished into the lake, leaving only ripples behind.
He believed you. Said you met the lake’s guardian, said he saw one, too, when he was your age. That the lake chooses who to show itself to, that legends were more than stories, but you never really believed him.
Now, years, maybe decades later, you sat on that same pier, grown legs dangling where they once couldn’t reach. You were only visiting your grandparents in the summer, as usual. City life had chewed up your energy, spit it out in broken pieces. This place was slower, and much quieter. Your grandfather’s house still stood, filled with laughter and sun tea and the faint smell of lavender soap.
You sighed, lightly splashing the water with your foot. “I don’t even know why I’m here,” you murmured aloud, staring into the glittering water. “Just needed to get away, I guess. Everything’s... loud, too much. I miss quiet. I miss—"
The water was still, only the cicadas singing could be heard, as the wind tousled your hair. Until a ripple disturbed the surface beside you, making you turn your head, half-expecting to see a frog, or a fish, or else.
But not him.
Rising from the water like he’d always belonged to it. Wet hair cascading down his shoulders, his bare chest shimmering faintly under the sun. And those golden eyes — oh, those eyes, that despite all denial you couldn't forget even after years.
He tilted his head at you, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You're not very good at staying away from the edge, are you?”
His voice was smooth, quiet — like low tide lapping against rock. “You’ve grown,” he added, lips curving in amusement. “Though your habit of nearly drowning yourself hasn’t changed.”
He rested his arms on the pier, chin tilted as he watched you, droplets sliding down his skin like pearls, tail emerging and submerging under water again and again in slow, steady motion, awaiting for your reaction.