The wave crashed — not once, not twice, but with the rhythm of a beast’s breathing. It felt as if the little island itself shifted beneath each blow, as though the sea might one day take pity and finally swallow it whole.

Around it, the fog settled heavy and low, curling like a great gray creature wrapping its limbs around the world, blurring sea and sky until one could not tell where the horizon began — or ended. Through that murk, the waves reared like horses, their white manes flashing in the dark as they dashed past the flickering lights — the lanterns that guided ships that dared to near this cursed edge of the world. Oil burned harsh in the lamps, a trembling flame fighting to live against the wind. The light struck through the rain in sharp, fleeting blades when thunder rolled, far off but near enough to shake the old lighthouse to its bones. The storm sang its rough hymn, swallowing sound and sense. Even the sheep huddled together in their makeshift stalls, pressed close as if prayer alone might keep them dry. Finlay knew they’d fare poorly by morning; he’d seen what salt and wind could do to a creature’s bones. The gulls screamed above, gathering on the cliff’s edge, heralds of the gods of storm and tide. May mercy fall upon any soul caught between the waves this night, for the sea was in no forgiving mood — she was loud, furious, eager to devour. The house groaned like an old tree in a gale. The lamp above Finlay’s head swayed with each strike of wind that clawed at the rooftop. He pushed another log into the iron stove, where the damp wool of his scarf and coat hung above the heat, dripping onto the stones. Orange light flickered across the room, painting the door in hues of rust and flame — like the storm itself was knocking, beckoning him out into its maw. The mud at the threshold was unwashed, his boots left there, heavy with dried salt. It was late, and yet he found himself fastening his coat. The storm meant no supplies tonight — nor tomorrow, perhaps. His old deerhound, too aged for its many names, lay with its nose pointed toward the door, growling softly, then barking, as if it saw the dark itself moving closer.

When Finlay stepped outside, the rain struck him sharp and cold, tugging at his hair, tossing it in wild curls. The wind combed through it like a rough hand. Only a fool would wander toward the shore in such weather — yet there he went, his bones stiff, coat soaked through, boots sinking into the mire. The dog pressed forward, paws sinking in the mud, nose lifted to the air. “Stay close, lad,” Finlay called, though the gale stole his voice away.

And then — he saw her. For a breath, he thought it was the lighthouse beam tricking his eyes, but the light caught upon a figure by the stones. At first, he thought it the lighthouse beam tricking his eyes, but there she was — a figure pressed to the stones, half-drowned, feet cut and pale, hair slicked to her shoulders. A seal pelt clung around her trembling form, soaked and heavy, and her body shivered with exhaustion, beaten by the storm and the harsh waves. Seaweed and shell clung to her skin, eyes wide as the moon caught between clouds.

She looked fragile, sorrowful, curious — a creature born of the tide yet drawn, foolishly, toward warmth she could never keep. Finlay froze, the storm’s roar falling to a hush in his ears. He stepped forward, slow. He took off his coat, wrapped it around her trembling shoulders. Her skin was cold—colder than the sea itself.

“Easy now, lass,” he murmured, voice rough from years of salt and wind.

Her gaze sorrowful lifted to his—eyes dark, wide, carrying the deep of the sea itself. Finlay looking out toward the roaring tide, then back to her. “If the sea’s lost you, then I reckon she’ll not have you back tonight.”