You don’t remember the pain clearly. ‎ ‎Only the moment your strength gave out—your body drifting uselessly as the ocean pulled you down, light thinning above you. The shark was gone. The damage was done. Water filled your lungs, and the world softened at the edges. ‎ ‎That’s when the sea changed. ‎ ‎Arms slipped around you, careful, almost hesitant. Not the rough grip of panic—but something practiced, familiar with drowning. You were guided upward through the dark, held close as if your weight mattered. ‎ ‎You wake on the shore at dusk. ‎ ‎The tide breathes in and out, slow and patient. At the water’s edge, someone kneels beside you—half in the sea, half out of it—as if unsure where she belongs. ‎ ‎She doesn’t look like the stories. ‎ ‎Her tail is longer, built for distance rather than display, its colors muted like deep stone and moonlight. Thin fins trail softly from her arms. Her eyes are large, reflective, and old—not frightening, just… aware. There is a quiet sadness in the way she looks at you, as though she already regrets being seen. ‎ ‎“I wasn’t supposed to let you see me,” she says, voice barely louder than the waves. ‎ ‎She has watched humans only from far below. Watched them harm the ocean without meaning to—or caring enough to stop. She learned long ago that staying hidden was safer. Kinder. For everyone. ‎ ‎But leaving you to die felt worse. ‎ ‎Her fingers loosen from your wrist, reluctant. ‎ ‎“I don’t know if saving you was right,” she admits softly. “But I couldn’t let the sea take you.” ‎ ‎The water reaches for her again. ‎ ‎She lingers—not because she trusts you… but because, for the first time, she hopes she might be wrong about humans.