The waves were too loud again.
Louder than last night. Louder than the night before that.
They weren't supposed to sound like this—like they were breathing. Like they were counting time.
Each crash against the cliff landed inside my chest, not my ears. A slow, relentless rhythm. A heartbeat that didn't belong to me. The windows rattled with every crash, vibrating like they were trying to break free.
I pressed my earbuds in deeper, cranking the volume up until my head throbbed. Music filled my ears—drums, noise, distraction—but it didn't matter. The sea was audible anyway. It always was. Its voice was older than silence. Patient. Unignorable.
The pendant around my neck pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
A soft blue glow leaked through the fabric of my shirt, rising and fading like a breath. I clamped my hand over it, pressing hard enough to hurt.
"No," I muttered. "Not tonight."
The warmth under my palm sharpened. The pendant flared brighter, like it had heard me—and disagreed.
Outside, the storm surged in response.
Wind slammed against the windows. Rain lashed sideways, sounding like needles against glass. I could smell the ocean even from here —salt and something electric, like the air before lightning splits the sky open.
The same storm from my dreams.
The same one that had taken her.
My mother's voice crashed through my memory, sharp and broken, barely audible because of the roar of the sea.
"Run, Xylan! Don't watch—!"
Then water.
So much water.
I had been eight, barefoot on the rocks, watching the tide climb higher and higher until it took her down with it. People said she drowned. Said it was an accident.
They were wrong.
My hands were shaking when I sat at my desk.
I flipped open my sketchbook to help calm me down. Drawing usually helped. Lines, shapes, control. Earlier, I'd sketched the crystal fish from the beach, its scales looking bright and shiny… even in a pencil sketch, something beautiful and wrong at the same time.
But now—
The drawing was different.
The ink had blurred, the lines softening like they'd been dipped in water. I frowned, leaning closer.
No.
Not blurred.
Moving.
The drawing was rearranging itself.
The fish's body stretched and reshaped. Scales turned into shadows. Fins became hair. Slowly, impossibly, a face emerged.
Her face.
Hope Starling.
My breath caught.
Her hair spilled across the page in dark waves. Her eyes—ink-black but shining—looked almost alive. I traced a finger along the paper, my skin prickling where it touched.
I hadn't drawn this.
I knew I hadn't.
And yet every line felt familiar. Every line looked like the way I always drew it, like muscle memory. Like I'd done it while sleeping. Like something had borrowed me.
For one terrifying second, I swore her eyes blinked.
Not much.
Just enough.
I slammed the sketchbook shut.
The sound echoed too loudly in the room. My heart pounded so hard it hurt, breath catching like I'd swallowed seawater.
"You shouldn't be here, Hope Starling," I whispered.
The room answered with silence.
The clock ticked. The floor creaked. Rain whispered against the walls.
Then the sea spoke.
"Neither should you."
The words slid through the cracked window, rough and sharp at the same time, like a blade wrapped in silk.
My skin went ice-cold.
The pendant exploded with light, blue-white and blinding, throwing warped shadows across my room. The hum beneath the storm deepened, vibrating through my bones, syncing with my pulse.
This wasn't thunder.
There were voices in it now.
Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
Most were unfamiliar.
One wasn't.
"Stay away from the water, Xylan," my mother's voice whispered, breaking through the noise. "Promise me."
I staggered back, slamming into my chair. The sketchbook tumbled from the desk, pages fanning open across the floor.
Drawings stared up at me.
Dozens of them.
The same face.
Hope Starling.
Again. Again. Again.
Her expression shifted from page to page—confused, frightened, determined. In one, she looked almost like she was reaching out. Calling for help.
My throat tightened.
"What are you?" I whispered.
Lightning split the sky.
For a single heartbeat, the cliffs outside were washed in white—and I saw it.
A tall, pale shape stood on the rocks below.
Watching.
Its edges flickered, like it didn't fully belong to this world. And it was facing my window.
Facing me.
I lunged forward, slamming the window shut, locking it with shaking hands. The wind screamed outside—but something else slipped through with it.
A laugh.
Low.
Almost human.
"You shouldn't be here," the voice murmured again, closer now.
The pendant went dark.
The light vanished. The hum died. The room fell into shadow.
I stood there, chest heaving, heart pounding loudly as though it was stuck in a cage, ready to come out, soaked in the sound of the storm. My reflection in the glass looked wrong—blurred, broken, like I was already fading.
For the first time in years, I wished I'd never learned how to listen to the sea.
Because now—
It was listening back.