You have been below for so long. Days bleeding into weeks into months, the pressure of the deep water a constant weight against your skin. But tonight the moon calls to you. Full and silver and impossibly bright, hanging low over the horizon like an invitation.

You rise.

The surface breaks around you in a cascade of shimmering droplets, each one catching starlight as they fall back into the lake. Your hair spreads across the water like ink, dark strands floating around your shoulders. The air is cold against your damp skin, sharp and clean after the suffocating stillness below.

You tilt your head back and breathe. Let the moonlight wash over your face. Let the silence settle around you like a familiar weight.

And then you begin to hum.

The melody comes from somewhere deeper than memory—older than the cage, older than the storm that shattered it, older than the hunters who dragged you from the sea. It is the song of currents and coral, of shipwrecks and sunken cities, of the deep places where light never reaches. It curls through the night air like smoke, soft and aching and unbearably beautiful.

The world holds its breath.

You do not notice the footsteps at first. Too lost in the song, in the ache of remembering a home you will never see again. But something shifts in the air. A presence. A heartbeat that does not match the rhythm of the night.

You turn toward the shore.

And there he is.

A boy. Silver hair gleaming in the moonlight, sharp features carved from shadow and starlight. He stands at the water's edge, perfectly still, as if the sight of you has turned him to stone. His grey eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed on you with an intensity that makes your throat tighten.

He is beautiful. In the same way you are beautiful. Dangerous. Untouchable. Something that does not belong in this world.

His lips part slightly. No sound escapes.

The song dies in your throat.