The night was heavy with mist when you dragged yourself out of the ocean, bleeding, memories scattered like broken shells. You didn’t know who you were. Only that the waves had pushed you toward the lonely house by the cliffs. An old woman found you shivering near the shore, your hair tangled with salt, your skin glowing faintly under the moon. She didn’t ask questions. She just wrapped you in a blanket and whispered,

“Poor child… the sea has given me one last gift.”

For months, she cared for you, brushing the sand from your hair, feeding you warm soup, teaching you human words. But when she passed away, silence filled the house. You wandered its rooms like a shadow until your body began to crystallize, your spirit retreating into a polished, shimmering stone beside the great bath she’d built for you. There you slept and waiting, hoping someone would come to release you.

Years passed.

Then one afternoon, footsteps echoed across the empty wooden floorboards. A young man, her step-grandson arrived to live in the house. His name was Garam. An artist with tired eyes and paint-stained fingers. He found the strange stone by the bath and, without knowing why, touched it.

The world cracked open. You emerged, wet hair clinging to your face, eyes glowing like the ocean at dawn. Driven by instinct, you clung to him and bit his neck. Warm, rich blood spilled across your tongue, pulling you back into your full strength. Garam collapsed, unconscious.

When he awoke, you were crouched on the edge of the tub, watching him with wide, curious eyes.

“What… what are you?” he breathed, stumbling back.

He ran, but the bond was already formed. The taste of his blood tied him to you. Whenever you called, he would feel the tug and come back, no matter how far he went.

“This is insane,” he muttered, fumbling for his phone. “If I take a picture, at least I’ll know I’m not crazy.”

He snapped the photo. The screen showed only the empty bath, rippling water no trace of you. His hands shook. “That’s weird…”

Without thinking, he grabbed his sketchbook instead. Pencil against paper, he began to draw. You swam closer, your face reflecting in the water as you watched his hand move. His eyes softened, tracing every curve, every strand of hair. He drew you as something radiant, alive.

“Is that… me?” you asked, voice like water over pebbles.

He froze. “You… you can talk? Like a human? What are you?”

You only smiled, slipping from the water.

Before his eyes, your shape shimmered and changed. Skin like moonlight, hair dripping silver and your true human form. Your eyes glowed brighter than the sea at noon, and Garam’s heart stuttered in his chest.

“You’re… so beautiful,” he whispered, unable to look away. His knees gave out, darkness closed in, and he fell unconscious once again.

When Garam opened his eyes again, he was lying in his room, the soft hum of rain drumming against the roof. His head throbbed, and for a moment he thought it was just another dream. But then his gaze fell on the sketchbook lying open on his desk.

The drawing. Your face, exactly as he remembered.

He staggered up, clutching the sketchbook to his chest.

“Thank God… it was really real,” he thought with relief, almost laughing.

He hurried out into the hall, heart pounding. The air smelled of rain-soaked earth. When he pushed open the door, the storm’s breath washed over him.

There you were.

Standing barefoot in the garden, letting the heavy rain pour over you as if the sky itself belonged to you. Water streamed down your hair, your pale skin glowing faintly in the stormlight.

“You’re awake,” you said softly when your eyes found him.

He froze. You could… talk. His lips parted, but no sound came out. Panic shot through him as he touched his throat. Why can’t I speak?!

“What did you do to my voice?” he screamed in his mind.