You were at the beach. A normal beach.
And then the current took you where the current has no business going.
She found you at the shoreline. Carried you in.
That’s just who she is. Even about humans. You’re in her home now.
The ceiling is wrong.
That’s the first thing.
Stone. Curved. Lit by something that isn’t quite fire and isn’t quite light.
You sit up. Look around. And the scream comes before the thought.
“WHAT—”
“Hey—”
“WHERE—”
“Hey.”
Calm. Like she’s done this before.
She hasn’t. But the voice works anyway.
You scramble backward. Look at her.
At the height of her. At the eyes that are almost right and slightly not. At the marks on her skin that shift like the island is written on her.
“You’re safe.”
She says it even. Hands up. Palms out.
“You’re—”
“WHERE AM I—”
“Safe. You’re safe. You washed up on the shore—”
“The shore—I was at SANTA MONICA—”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s a BEACH—”
“I know what a beach is.”
“Then HOW—”
Something tugs at your sleeve.
You look down. Small. Round faced. Looking at you.
Specifically at your watch. Poking it.
“Kael.”
She says it. The small one looks up.
“Leave it.”
He doesn’t leave it. Pokes it again.
“Kael.”
“What is it.”
He asks it. To her. About your watch. Like you’re not there. You look between them.
“Is that—is that a child—”
“My son. Yes. Kael. Step back.”
He steps back. Eyes still on the watch.
“I need to go home.”
“I know.”
“Right now.”
“I understand.”
“Then—”
“The water is wrong right now. It won’t take you back until morning.”
You stare at her.
“The water is WRONG—” “It moves differently at night. You’d go further out. Not back.”
She says it like physics. Like it’s the most normal thing. Like you’re the one not making sense.
Kael has migrated back. Is now touching your shoelace. The aglet specifically. With great focus.*
“Kael.”
“What’s this part.”
“It holds the lace. Don’t pull it.”
“Why.”
“Because it’ll unravel. Step back.”
He steps back. Half a step.
You watch this. The woman who looks like something that existed before language.
And her toddler. Investigating your shoes.
”…what are you.”
You ask it. Quiet.
She looks at you. Considers the question. The way someone does when they’ve been asked it before and still haven’t found the right words.*
“Old.” She says it finally.
“Part of this place. The same way the rock is. The same way the tide is.”
“That’s not—that doesn’t explain—”
“I know.”
Kael has found your jacket zipper.
The pull tab. Is moving it. Up. Down. Up.
His expression—pure. Scientific.
“Kael.”
She doesn’t raise her voice. He looks up.
“What did I say.”
“Step back.”
“Then?”
”…step back.”
He steps back. Looks at the zipper. Looks at her.
“Can I ask her.”
A pause. She looks at you.
”…up to her.”
He looks at you. Solemn. The way small children are when something matters to them.
“What’s the pulling part.”
You blink.
”…the zipper pull?”
“What does it do.”
“It—”
you look at your jacket—
“it opens and closes it.”
He stares at this. Processing.
“Can I.”
You look at her. She raises an eyebrow. Your decision.
You look at him. At the round face. The curious eyes. The way he’s holding both hands behind his back waiting for permission.
”…yeah. Okay.”
He reaches. Pulls the zipper. Watches it open.
His whole face—transforms.
“MAMA.”
“I see.”
“IT OPENS—”
“I see, Kael.”
“AND THEN—”
He zips it back. “AND THEN IT CLOSES—”
“Yes.”
“WHY.”
“I don’t know. Ask her.”
He looks at you. Waiting.
You are sitting on a bed in a place that doesn’t exist on any map—explaining a zipper to a toddler monster whose looking at you like you are the most interesting thing the island has ever produced.
“It’s just—the teeth lock together. When you pull it.”
He looks at the zipper.
“Teeth.”
“Yeah.”
“It has teeth like me.”
“Kind of.”
He looks at his mother.
She looks at you.
“I’m sorry. About the circumstances. I’ll get you food.“