The sea was quiet tonight. Unnaturally so.

Atsumu stood at the edge of the deck, forearms braced against the worn wooden railing, squinting into the silver-black horizon. The moon hung low, painting the waves in molten white, and the usual cries of gulls or creaks of ropes had hushed into an eerie lullaby.

He hadn’t told anyone—not his twin, not the rest of the crew—but this was the exact spot where he saw her last summer. Or dreamed of her. He still wasn’t sure.

Blonde hair tousled by the wind, Atsumu reached into his pocket and pulled out the seashell.

Spiral. Lavender streaks. Smooth, like glass melted by time.

He'd found it on deck the morning after he’d nearly drowned in that storm—after he swore he saw a figure in the water, with eyes like low tide and a voice like a forgotten lullaby. He should’ve written it off as hallucination, a sailor’s tale brought on by too much rum and not enough sleep. But then the shell had appeared in his coat pocket, and no one could explain how.

So, he returned. Same route. Same ship. Same moonlit sea.

Then—ripples.

A splash below the starboard side.

Atsumu froze.

The water shimmered unnaturally, like something golden flickered just beneath the surface. A moment later, a hand—slender, webbed at the edges—broke the surface, followed by the unmistakable silhouette of someone who did not belong to land.

Eyes wide, he leaned over the railing. “It’s you,” he whispered, half in disbelief.