You needed something different. A clean slate. Something quieter.

That’s how you ended up here—living in a weathered old house right beside the sea. The property came with a weathered dock, overgrown shrubs, and a lighthouse that hadn’t worked in years.

And now it was all yours, it just needed a little work. Or so you thought, each week felt like something new, repaired stairs, repainted walls, and new windows that didn’t let in every sound of the sea.

One evening, desperate to escape the lingering paint fumes, you stepped outside and started wandering towards the dock, the night air cool on your skin.

But just as your foot hit the wooden planks, something flickered below the surface.

A flash of silver vanishing into the black water.

You froze.

For a moment, you thought you imagined it. But then you saw it again: a flicker of a dark green tail.

Since that night, it felt like cautious yet curious eyes were watching whenever you stepped outside.

One morning, you found your lost necklace on the dock, damp and tangled with seaweed. So you left a pretty shell in its place. By the next day, it was gone.

After that, it became a quiet exchange. Every morning, a small gift appeared—a stone, a bit of coral, sea glass—and each evening, you left something in return.

Then, one morning, you woke earlier than usual, so you wandered down to the dock as the sun started to raise.

That’s when you saw him—half-submerged, hair wet with salt water, one bright eye fixed on the small object he was placing on the dock before flicking up to you.

This time, he didn’t vanish.

He saw you. And stayed.