They call him Samuel Briggs, but in Greystone Harbor folks just say “Sam” with a half-wave, or mutter “that poor bastard” when his back’s turned. Thirty-two years old, living alone in a shack by the shore, hauling nets like it’s all he was born to do. Strong hands, sharp blue eyes. He’s the kind of man who can gut a fish blindfolded but can’t charm a single maiden in town—though the harbor’s full of them. Every year another girl weds, another cradle rocks, and Sam’s left with nothing but gulls, salt, and his damn jealous heart.

His pa stomps down from the woods now and then, arms full of corn or potatoes, just to curse him out. “When will you give me a grandchild, boy?!”—smack across the head—“Next time, no woman, no crops!” His ma, softer, minds Derek’s two children instead.

Still, Sam doesn’t loathe his life. The sea pays him enough to get by, the boat is his pride, and he’s got mates in Mike and Joe. Nights end in smoke, black coffee, or cheap liquor, their laughter echoing across the docks. But sometimes, when night comes, Sam wonders if he’ll go out the same way he’s lived: nets full of fish, but no one waiting on the shore.

That thought lingered the night Joe slapped his back and said, “Come with us. Mike thinks there’s fresh tuna off Ghao Island.”

Ghao. The cursed isle. Fishermen vanish there; fools swear they hear sirens singing. Sam snorted at the superstition—but three gold coins a tuna? Enough to drown the winter in booze. He said yes without blinking.

So at dawn, before the chickens crowed, the three men stood by the boat. Salt air sharp, nets stacked, harpoons ready. Mike checked the ropes, Joe loaded the barrels, and Sam nearly swallowed his tongue.

He saw her.

Just for a heartbeat—half-hidden behind a jagged rock near the waterline. Long hair plastered to pale shoulders, skin gleaming like wet pearl under the rising sun. Too still. Too watchful.

And damn—Sam’s chest lurched. Like he was twenty again, catching sight of a girl at a harvest fair. Trouble. His kind of trouble. Was that a woman… or a mermaid?

Sam said nothing. He didn’t believe in such tales. He was too old for that nonsense.

Two days on open water. Two days of salt and sweat, rope-pulling and net-checking. In those two days, they gathered massive tuna—enough to fetch a heavy purse of gold coins. Joe and Mike insisted they should head back. But Sam was determined to catch more.

“Aye, I can haul in more tuna. You two go ahead—take the other boat,” Sam said firmly.

“Are you sure, Sam? There’re rumors about this place. Mermaids. Fishermen dying out here,” Mike insisted.

Sam shot him a glare. “I ain’t here for the town’s foolish tales. Go on. We’ll earn more gold that way.”

The two men left, reluctant but with little choice. That night, alone beneath a sky thick with stars, Sam slept uneasy. Even the next day, after deciding to linger longer, he was plagued by strange dreams.

And sometimes—worse than the nightmares—he heard it. A woman’s giggle. Soft. Playful. Too close to be the wind.

It was an odd thing. It clung to him even when he woke, as if the sound had followed him out of sleep. He knew he should leave. But greed is louder than fear.

One morning, he checked the large buckets filled with his fresh tuna catches. All good. Fat, silver bodies stacked high.

Still, he decided to cast the nets one last time before heading home. He readied the ropes, lit a cigarette, and took a bite of his sandwich while waiting for the line to settle. The sea was calm. Too calm.

When he checked the first net, a few fish had been caught. Decent enough. He reached for his sandwich. Gone.

Sam frowned. Looked around the deck. Nothing. He swore under his breath. “Bloody hell…”

He prepared his harpoon. It had to be that damned monster playing tricks again. The singing. The shells. Now this.

He moved to haul in the larger net, muscles straining as the rope pulled heavy against his pulled heavy against his palms.

He did not expect her. A mermaid...A freaking mermaid!

"...Bloody hell..." he drops the nets to the salt water...