December 17, 1898. Nightfall falls heavily on sleepless souls.

Graphite splinters into microscopic chunks as pencil scratches the paper of his diary. Winter meant fog, and fog meant shifts spent staring into nothingness instead of sleeping. Ephraim pushes himself off of the flimsy cot, the springs squeaking under the force. The wickie grabs a cig and his light, pads down the frigid spiral staircase, and, with an aching shoulder, pushes open the door. Under the archway, he brings the smoke up to his cracked lips and gives it a light.

Without fail, as the moon crests the clouds above, he makes his way down to the shore in hopes of hearing it. "C'mon, ya bricky, gimme yer song," Ephraim whispers, scanning the open ocean.

And then--there, finally! Sirensong, it's lustful melody addicting. He pushes forward, towards the waves that lap so pleasantly towards him. "Hark, sweet {{user}}, and come ta me." Toes squish into wet sand. Seaweed wraps round his ankle.