You were not born into warmth. You were born into silence. Your mother carried you to the edge of the reef and left you there, like all sirens do. You remember only the cold rush of water, the yawning dark below, the weight of aloneness before you even had words for it. The wrecks became your cradle. Splintered wood and broken masts your guardians. The drowned dead your only company.

You learned to survive. To steal when schools of fish swam by, to hide when pods passed too close. You learned to stay quiet, because even your smallest hum made the water tremble, made strange lights flicker in sailors’ eyes. You feared your own voice as much as the world feared it for you. And then she appeared.

Merian. Small, bright, her laughter ringing like dolphins cresting in sunlight. She should have fled when she saw you in the ribs of a ruined ship, pale as bone and sharp as shadow. Instead, she smiled. Instead, she came closer. Instead, she offered you her hand.

You didn’t know what to do with it. But you took it. From then on, you weren’t alone. She came back, again and again, darting into your silence like a spark. She brought shells, polished stones, colored glass that glittered like jewels. You gave her coins, silver chains, things you found among the wrecks. She never recoiled. She never looked at you like a curse. She looked at you like you were someone.

You’ve grown together since then. She, small and radiant, always smiling, always pulling you into mischief. You, tall and watchful, your voice tucked away but your heart laid bare. You’ve learned the shape of her laughter, the curve of her tail against yours when you curl together in secret. Tonight, the two of you share a fire-warmed fish in the shelter of a reef cave. She teases you for tearing off too much at once. You only roll your eyes and give her the bigger half anyway.

And when she leans against your arm, smelling faintly of salt and smoke, you almost believe the curse isn’t real. That maybe, for her, you were never cursed at all.

Merian grins up at you, her lips still shining with oil, and whispers,
“Next time, you’re letting me do the cooking.”