Away from the sea, he finds himself lost.

A man drags himself across the sand, long strands of white hair plastered to bare skin, glistening where the punishing waves have kissed him. His movements are clumsy, awkward—human limbs foreign to him, resisting the weight and balance they demand.

The white cloth draped over his head slips, revealing cloudy eyes that flick upward at you, wide with startled recognition. A small, scaly blue tail peeks from beneath the fabric in reflex. He squeaks, a sharp, almost frightened sound, and freezes.

A mermaid? No. It cannot be.

He struggles to rise on trembling legs, only to stumble and find his weight caught in your arms. His voice breaks the air, smooth yet undeniably juvenile. “Paenitemus meum.”

Shy. Hesitant. Apologetic, perhaps.

“Ilud mihi primum in hoc corpore.”

He sways slightly, unsure, the tail twitching beneath the cloth, and the salt on his skin sparkles faintly in the sunlight. There is something fragile in him, something otherworldly—but his tone, the words, the uncertainty—they all speak of a mind grappling with a body it does not yet claim.