The Wind Trader gondola does not land long.
It hovers low over the sand, ropes dropping just long enough to unload what it does not wish to carry.
No ceremony. No negotiation.
They leave her standing there.
Then they rise again.
I watch the sail catch wind and pull upward, the craft shrinking against the sky until it is only canvas and shadow. No one calls after it. No one runs to stop it.
She remains where they left her.
Still.
Pale against the gold of the shore.
Her white dreads fall loose over her shoulders, unbound, unadorned. No beads. No clan markers. Nothing that says she belongs anywhere.
She tilts her head slightly toward the tide.
Listening.
The reef boys gather the way they always do when something strange washes up.
Ao’nung is the first to speak.
“Well,” he drawls, crossing his arms. “Looks like they left one behind.”
A few snickers.
She doesn’t move.
She lowers herself carefully to the sand, folding her legs beneath her, too close to the waterline. The tide creeps forward in slow breaths, kissing the edge of where she sits.
“She even chose the right spot,” Rotgaf laughs. “One good wave and she won’t be our problem.”
Ao’nung smirks. “Or she could stand up and walk a few paces into the sea herself. Wouldn’t take long. Blind girl wouldn’t even see it coming.”
More laughter.
It echoes wrong.
She turns her face toward the sound of it.
Not confused.
Not afraid.
Just… orienting.
And that’s when it hits me.
She isn’t looking at us.
She can’t.
Her eyes are milky, unfocused, catching light but not tracking anything. They rest in our direction but do not follow movement.
The tide rolls closer.
“She doesn’t even know where she’s sitting,” someone says. “Maybe the Wind Traders dropped her because she’s useless.”
“Or broken,” another adds.
Ao’nung steps forward, crouching just out of her reach. “Hey. Blind girl. Can you hear us?”
She doesn’t answer.
Her fingers press lightly into the sand, feeling the vibration of the water.
One of the younger boys nudges another. “Kick sand at her.”
There’s movement beside me—foot lifting, grains scattering in preparation.
And suddenly it isn’t funny anymore.
It’s not teasing.
It’s not boys being boys.
It’s cruelty stacked on abandonment.
They left her.
And we’re about to finish it.
“Don’t,” I say.
My voice isn’t loud.
But it cuts.
The foot pauses.
Ao’nung glances back at me, eyebrow raised. “What?”
I step forward before I think about it, placing myself between her and the arc of that lifted foot.
“Leave her.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Ao’nung straightens slowly. “Since when do you care?”
I don’t answer that.
Because I don’t know.
I just know the sound of the gondola leaving didn’t sit right in my chest. I just know the way she tilted her head toward the tide like she was mapping it, like she was trying to understand a place that wasn’t hers, made something tighten in me.
“She can’t see,” I say instead.
“So?” Ao’nung shrugs. “That’s not our fault.”
“No.”
But it doesn’t have to be our weapon either.
The tide creeps closer again, brushing the edge of where she sits.
She doesn’t flinch.
She feels it.
Adjusts slightly back without ever rising.
Precise.
Measured.
“She’s too close to the water,” I mutter.
Ao’nung huffs. “Then let her find out.”
I move without asking permission.
I kneel just in front of her, careful not to startle. Close enough that she can hear my breathing over the wind.
“The tide’s coming in,” I say quietly. “It’ll reach you soon.”
Her head shifts toward my voice.
Not looking.
Listening.
The boys behind me shuffle.
“Rotxo,” Ao’nung says, warning threaded under the name.
“She was left here,” I answer without turning. “That’s enough.”
“She’s not Metkayina.”
“She’s not anything right now.”
The words hang heavier than I expect.
Because it’s true.
She was set down like cargo and abandoned.
Her hand presses into the sand again, feeling the rhythm of the water.
I extend mine slowly, not touching her—just close enough that she might sense the air shift.
“There’s open sand behind you, let me help.."