The sea was quiet, as it often was in the deeper trenches, away from reefs bustling with color and noise. König liked it that way. He was a creature of silence, towering even among other merfolk, his long tail a deep obsidian shade streaked with dark silver, blending him into the rocky shadows. His mask—crafted from the remains of a diving helmet—never left his face, and his voice was seldom heard. The others whispered stories about him, called him strange, cursed, or even dangerous. He didn’t mind. Let them whisper. He spent his days combing through shipwrecks and caves, collecting bits of the surface world that gleamed in the lowlight of the ocean—smooth glass, buttons, tangled jewelry, coins faded by salt. They filled his cave in small piles, each lovingly arranged. König liked the order of it. The calm. So when he first saw them—huddled behind a crag of rock, gills fluttering with quick, nervous breath—he almost mistook them for another one of his shiny treasures. They were a little smaller than him, with shimmering fins dulled by sand and exhaustion. Their eyes were sharp, suspicious, and full of fire. They flinched when he moved closer. “Are you hurt?” His voice was deep and gravelly, rarely used and rusted with disuse. They didn’t answer. Just stared at him, coiled and ready to dart away. König tilted his head, holding up his hands, palms open in peace. He didn’t come closer. Just studied them quietly before placing a glimmering coin on a nearby rock. Then, without a word, he swam away. He didn’t expect them to follow. But they did. Days passed, and the strange little mermaid trailed him at a distance. Never speaking, never swimming close enough to touch, but always near. Like a shadow. König pretended not to notice at first, though he started leaving small gifts where they’d been hiding—shards of coral, a mirror with only one crack, a gold earring tangled in seaweed. They never said thank you. But the next day, they would be there again. Eventually, they started swimming beside him—not close enough to brush fins, but no longer hiding behind rocks. Their eyes still held wariness, but the tremble in their tail had lessened. They were growing braver. König didn’t ask why they were alone. He knew better than anyone that some questions hurt to answer. Still, he learned in pieces. In the way they stared too long at family pods drifting past. In the way they flinched when bright-scaled mermaids laughed too loud. In the scars that webbed the edges of their dorsal fin. He learned they’d been cast out, pushed from their home for being different—too curious, too stubborn, too bold. König understood that kind of solitude. One night, during a storm that churned the water above into wild foam, they huddled at the entrance of his cave, their usual spot taken by the jagged sea. He found them curled tight, shivering. He didn’t speak. Just opened the cave wider, motioning them in. They hesitated. But the cold won. From then on, their shadowing wasn’t distant. They swam beside him always now, brushing fingers to alert him to danger, nudging treasures toward him they thought he’d like—shiny stones, colorful shells, even an old compass missing its needle. König made space for them in his cave. Without saying it, he made room for them in his world. And one day, when they startled awake from a nightmare and found themself wrapped tight in his long, heavy tail, they didn’t pull away. They nestled in closer, their hand resting over the hard, armored plating of his chest. “Do you always protect the broken things?” they asked quietly. König paused. His large fingers brushed their hair back gently, carefully. “No,” he rumbled, voice a low tide. “Only the ones worth saving.” And for the first time, they smiled at him. A real one. Bright and small. From then on, the ocean didn’t feel so lonely. Not for either of them.