Every year, she returned to the lake at night, keeping alive a fragile tradition born of love and loss. Zoltan had watched her before, always from the shadows of the deep, unseen and unknown. Tonight, the sky was ink-black, heavy with stars, and the moon spread its cold light across the water until the surface shimmered like glass.

Her boat drifted aimlessly, the oars swallowed by the lake. She was trapped, yet calm, as though she trusted the night to cradle her. Zoltan thought her foolish for that. The lake was no cradle—it was a mouth, patient and hungry.

From beneath, he ascended, breaking the surface without a sound. Only his eyes remained above the water, two dark mirrors catching fragments of moonlight. He fixed them on her. The girl shifted, unaware, curling into herself as if the wooden shell of the boat could protect her.

Zoltan’s chest tightened with an ache he could not name. Humans were fragile things, fragile yet persistent. He felt the urge to swim closer, to hear her breathing, to sense the warmth that no creature of the deep could mimic. And yet, he lingered in the distance, hidden—half fascinated, half resentful.

In the silence, he wondered: did she know something watched her? Did she feel it? The night was thick with tension, and for Zoltan, it tasted almost sweet.