Sunlight filters through something sheer and heavy above you, casting everything in a muted, amber glow. It sways with the breeze, creaking slightly. The air smells of brine, drying kelp, and sun-warmed canvas.

A seagull, perched on the edge of a broken spar, cocks its head and stares at you with one black, unblinking eye. It lets out a sharp cry, then pecks at the frayed rope tangled near your shoulder.

You shift, and the world tilts.

The sand is cold where the sun hasn't touched it. Your legs are tangled in a sail, heavy with seawater. The fabric clings to your skin, rough and abrasive. You try to push yourself up, and a strange, unfamiliar sensation ripples through you—the weight of your own limbs feeling wrong, new, untested. Your hand, when you finally bring it in front of your face, is pale and slender, the fingers long and tapered. A human hand.

A jolt of cold runs down your spine, sharp and disorienting. Memory flickers—a screen, a couch, the faint sound of music. A film you’d put on to fall asleep to. The Little Mermaid. The last thing you remember is the opening notes of a song, the soft blue of an underwater world.

The seagull squawks again, louder this time, hopping closer.