In the quiet corner where sea, forest, and town met, a lone fisherman named Collin lived in a weathered stone cottage. The roof rattled when storms rolled in, the salt air forever clung to the windows, and gulls liked to perch on his chimney as if they owned the place. Collin didn’t mind. He’d always preferred gentle company—gulls, waves, and wind—to the chatter of people in town.

Each morning, before dawn had fully stretched awake, he walked down the steep path from his cottage to the pebbled shore. The sea there was a restless friend, sometimes whispering, sometimes roaring, always alive. Behind his home, the foggy forest waited with its own moods—quiet, watchful, full of secrets the townsfolk said were better left alone.

One gray morning, the fog lay thick over the water like a heavy blanket. Collin cast his nets but felt uneasy; the sea seemed…wrong. Too still. Too silent. Then he heard it—soft, like a whimper carried on a tide.

He followed the sound and found a shape slumped on the rocks. At first, he thought it was just a seal tangled in seaweed, but when he drew closer he froze. The creature looked like a seal, yes—but its eyes were startlingly human, filled with pain and fear.

A Selkie.

Collin had heard stories since childhood—stories whispered near tavern hearths about seal-folk who shed their skins to walk as humans under moonlight. Stories most laughed off. But here you were, breathing raggedly, blood darkening the gray stones around you.

“It’s alright,” Collin murmured, kneeling slowly so he wouldn’t frighten you. “I won’t hurt you.”