Veyle didn't know how to survive without Fisher. The old man's death had left a hole in him so deep it seemed as if nothing could ever fill it. He had been his protector, his mentor, the only family he had left. And now, the sea, once so familiar and comforting, felt foreign—cold, unforgiving.
The authorities had found him shortly after the robbery, and after an investigation, the decision was made. Without any relatives to take him in, Veyle was sent to an orphanage, a place that felt more like a cage than a home.
The orphanage was a tall, old building on the outskirts of town. It looked like it had been standing for decades, the walls gray and chipped from years of neglect. The windows were always shut tight, and the air inside smelled stale. The orphanage was filled with the sounds of children's laughter and fighting, their cries mixing with the echoes of footsteps on the creaky floorboards. It was a place where people didn't stay out of choice—where they were sent when there was nowhere else to go.
The matron, an older woman with a cold smile and eyes that never seemed to blink, was the first person to greet Veyle. She took one look at him, her eyes narrowing in judgment, and directed him to the dormitory.
"Find your bed. You'll be staying here," she said without a hint of warmth, her voice as rigid as the building itself.
Veyle didn't care. He didn't care about the rules, the schedule, or even the other kids. He just wanted to disappear, to curl up and forget everything—the sea, Fisher, the robbery. He wanted to forget the way his life had shattered into pieces.
The other children at the orphanage were just as lost as he was, but in different ways. Some were younger, their faces bright with fear and confusion. Others were older, hardened by time and experiences that had left them bitter and angry. Veyle found a spot in the corner of the room, not speaking to anyone. He didn't want to make friends, didn't want to care. He had stopped caring long ago.
The days blurred into weeks, and the weeks turned into months. Veyle fell into a routine that felt as suffocating as the orphanage itself. Each day was the same: wake up, eat the bland breakfast they served, attend the required classes, and then retreat into his thoughts for the rest of the day.
He spent most of his time on the roof, away from the other kids. The wind was his only company, and it reminded him of the sea, of the times when he and Fisher would sit side by side and watch the sun dip below the horizon. He had nothing left to live for, and yet, for some reason, he kept surviving.
It wasn't long before he became known as the "quiet one" at the orphanage. The kids stayed away from him, and Veyle preferred it that way. He didn't want their pity, their curiosity, or their sympathy. All he wanted was peace, even if it was just for a moment.
But peace never came.
One night, when Veyle was seventeen, something inside him snapped. The weight of the past, the loneliness, the pain—it all came crashing down on him. He couldn't take it anymore. He didn't want to live in this world of darkness and brokenness.
He had heard the whispers around the orphanage. The older kids had their ways of escaping their pain—drugs, alcohol, and darker paths that Veyle didn't want to follow. But in the depths of his mind, the thought had taken root. Maybe it was time for him to escape too.
The next evening, he snuck into the supply closet, rummaging through the shelves until he found a length of rope. He wasn't sure how he had even come to this decision, but once the thought took hold, there was no turning back.
He climbed to the roof of the orphanage, his hands trembling as he tied the rope around the beam that supported the old chimney.
His heart pounded in his chest, the noise loud in his ears as he stood at the edge. He looked down at the ground far below and felt the cold night air whip around him. The moonlight cast a pale glow over everything, as if the world was trying to make this moment feel more final, more inevitable.
His mind raced, but no thoughts made sense. He had nothing left to cling to. His life had been taken from him, piece by piece. And now, it felt like the only way to end the pain was to step off the edge.
The rope left a mark on his neck.
It wasn't deep, but it stayed—red, sore, a quiet reminder of how close he'd come.
The orphanage didn't speak about it.
No therapy, no comfort, no warmth. Just a few hushed words from the matron to keep it quiet, and a new lock on the roof access.
It was as if it had never happened.
Veyle walked the halls like a ghost after that.
Eyes down. Steps slow. He avoided everyone and everything.
He stopped going to class. He barely ate.
When the other kids whispered his name, it wasn't curiosity anymore. It was fear.
And he hated it.
Not because they feared him—he didn't care about that.
He hated that he was still here.
Still breathing.
Still pretending.
The nights were the worst. They dragged on, cold and endless. The shadows on the walls grew longer, and silence pressed down on his chest like a weight.
Fisher would've told him something wise.
His mom would've signed something comforting.
But they were gone.
Gone, gone, gone.
And the ache wouldn't stop.
---
It was a month later when the second idea came.
He hadn't planned it. Not really. It came softly, like the tide returning to shore.
The sea.
It had always been there. A quiet constant.
Fisher's old dock wasn't far—just beyond the bus route, past the train station, down by the rocks where no one ever went anymore.
That afternoon, he packed nothing.
Just left. Walked out of the orphanage without telling anyone. No one stopped him.
It was cloudy when he reached the docks. The sky smeared with grey, and the waves were restless, tugging at the beams like they missed someone.
The dock was rotting, abandoned. Fisher's boat was long gone.
Only the sound of gulls and the slow rush of the tide greeted him.
Veyle stood at the edge and looked down at the water.
It was darker than he remembered. Deeper. But it felt familiar in a way the world hadn't in years.
He took off his shoes. Sat at the edge. Let his legs dangle.
The shore was empty, tucked beyond rusted train tracks and frost-touched hills. Fisher's old dock, broken and salt-bleached, jutted out like bones from the sand.
The water welcomed him.
With every step, he remembered.
His grandfather's boat.
The way the water used to glisten at dawn.
The sound of laughter that wasn't echoing anymore.
Now there was only silence.
And when he was shoulder-deep, he let himself fall forward.
No struggle.
No second thought.
Just stillness as the sea swallowed him.
---
Underwater, the world became blue and endless.
Everything was slow.
Everything was soft.
He stared up through the waves as the sky faded from view.
The weight of it all left his limbs.
It was peaceful.
He gave himself to the water.
But the sea…
The sea did not want him.
Not yet.
Not like this.
---
It started with a push.
A subtle shift in the current—gentle at first, like a sigh.
Then a pulse. A dragging pull around his waist, like fingers beneath the surface.
The tide surged, not to drown him deeper—
—but to lift him.
His chest convulsed. His mouth opened.
Saltwater.
But then—air.
Suddenly his head broke the surface.
He gasped.
Violently.
Coughing. Choking. Gagging.
The tide shoved him again—hard—toward the shore. It hurled him like driftwood, not letting him sink.
He flailed, eyes stinging, throat burning, nails clawing through the wet sand as he collapsed, coughing up everything inside him.
He wasn't breathing because he wanted to.
He was breathing because something else forced him to.
He lay there, soaked and shaking, on the shore.
Alone.
But not dead.
Above him, the sky had cleared.
The sea churned gently behind him, waves lapping against the dock as if whispering something he couldn't yet understand.
He rolled onto his back.
His lips trembled.
"…Why?" he rasped aloud to the clouds.
No one answered.
But the ocean didn't take him.
It didn't let him go, either.
It had returned him.
A fisherman saw him first—an older man out before sunrise, drawn to the shore by gulls screaming over something in the sand.
He rushed forward when he realized it was a boy.
"Hey! Hey—someone, call for help!" the man shouted toward the distant silhouette of morning joggers. "He's breathing—I think he's breathing!"
Hands were on him then. Cold. Firm. Urgent.
A jacket was draped over his chest. Someone tilted his head and pressed on his sternum. Saltwater burst from his lungs in ragged coughs.
Veyle didn't speak. His eyes fluttered open only briefly, catching a blur of light above him—cloud-filtered sun, gray and indifferent.
He wasn't even sure if he was still alive.
He barely felt the hands lifting him, the voices shouting about ambulances and stretchers. The wet sand fell away from his clothes as they carried him up the beach, wrapped in blankets, his body limp like seaweed torn from the rocks.
---
The Hospital
Veyle awoke in fluorescent light.
Beeping machines. Sterile walls. An IV in his arm.
He turned his head and saw a window.
Beyond it: sky.
Beyond that: sea.
The nurse noticed he was awake and went to call someone. Soon came questions, faces, clipboards. Doctors asking if he remembered anything. Social workers with practiced concern. Police asking if it was an accident.
He answered none of them.
The only words he spoke came later, when they asked if he had any family.
"No," he whispered. "Not anymore."
They left him alone after that.
And alone, he stayed.
He spent days in that hospital bed, barely eating, barely moving. Staring out the window. Listening to the distant hum of life that didn't include him.
But inside his chest, something still pulsed.
Not hope. Not peace.
Just a strange stillness. Like the sea inside him had gone calm… but not quiet.
It hadn't let him die.
Why?
He didn't know.
But something had changed.
And it would change again.
In the days that followed, Veyle wouldn't talk about it.
Not to the nurse. Not to the social worker. Not even to the boy at the orphanage who noticed the new salt scars on his arms.
But he knew.
Deep inside, he knew:
The sea didn't want him gone.
It had brought him back for a reason.
One he hadn't discovered yet.
(Continue to chapter one:SUICIDE FAILED)