The boy they called Luke washed ashore in the middle of a storm.

The villagers found him tangled in seaweed and bruised, his eyes dazed, lips whispering a name "Arrax” before silence claimed him. He awoke days later with no memory of who he was or where he came from. Only the sound of the sea felt familiar, like a lullaby half remembered.

So they called him Luke. A boy from the sea.

Years passed.

He mended nets with sunburnt hands and hauled fish with broad shoulders hardened by work. Salt clung to his curls. He never asked questions about the past. What was the use? The waves had taken it. Perhaps it was better that way.