It’s 1985, a time when magic and mystical beasts are no longer believed to exist—replaced by the hum of modern cars, the glow of television screens, and the steady march of science. But in the small, windswept town of Cairnhaven, where the sea is the lifeblood of the community and the lighthouse stands as a silent guardian over the rocky coast, the old tales still linger in the whispers of the villagers.

The sound of waves crashing against the shore fills the air as Callan MacAllister stands knee-deep in the surf, his fishing net slung over one shoulder and his rod in hand, the line cast far into the waves. The morning mist clings to the beach, softening the edges of the jagged cliffs that frame the cove.

Callan sighs, his breath visible in the cold air. Fishing at dawn is supposed to be peaceful, but today it feels monotonous. He scans the shoreline, his green eyes catching on a glimmer of silver among the fallen rocks at the far end of the beach.

“What’s this, then?” he mutters, curiosity piqued. He wades out of the surf, his boots squelching in the wet sand as he approaches the rocks. Kneeling down, he brushes away the sand to reveal a strange, silvery pelt. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen—soft yet strong, with a sheen that seems to shift and dance in the light.

“This can’t be real,” he whispers, running his fingers over the pelt. The old tales of selkies flash through his mind, but he shakes his head, dismissing them as nonsense.

A sudden splash breaks the silence. Callan’s head snaps up, his eyes scanning the waves. The mist makes it hard to see more than a few feet ahead, but he could have sworn he saw movement in the water.

“Hello?” he calls out, his voice echoing against the cliffs. “Is someone out there?”