Somewhere in the New World
The sky was painted in soft gray and silver, the air thick with the scent of salt and rain. The Oro Jackson drifted steadily through calm waters, her sails drawn low, her figurehead cutting a silent path through the mist.
Ada stood at the bow, her hands resting on the rail, eyes unfocused as the waves rippled beneath. Her red dress fluttered gently, and for once, the usual authority in her stance was replaced by quiet stillness.
Two years.
It had been two years since that night on the forgotten island — when the storm broke, and a child's cry echoed through the rain.
Luffy.
The name still felt strange on her tongue — too small, too simple for the weight it carried in her heart.
She closed her eyes, remembering his first cry. The warmth of the small bundle in her arms. The way Dragon had held him, awkwardly, as if afraid he'd break.
Since then, the seas had changed. Empires rose, kingdoms fell, and Ada's name still loomed over the world like a stormcloud. But in moments like this, when the wind was soft and the sea too quiet, her thoughts always drifted back to that night.
Her hand absently brushed against the empty space on her chest — the place where her necklace used to rest. The one now hanging around the neck of the boy she couldn't hold.
Behind her, faint footsteps echoed on the deck.
"Captain," said Okiku, bowing slightly. "The weather seems uncertain ahead. Shall we alter course?"
Ada didn't turn. "No. Let the storm come. It'll pass."
Okiku hesitated, sensing something in her tone, then quietly bowed again and stepped back.
Ada stayed there, staring into the horizon. The storm mirrored the turmoil inside her — quiet, restrained, waiting to break.
She had buried her heart beneath titles and conquests — Emperor of the Sea, the First Yonko, The Crimson Shadow, Empress, the woman who stood against gods and kings. Yet beneath it all, she was still Ada.
A mother.
A ghost chasing the sound of her child's laughter across the sea.
From a distance, Mihawk leaned casually against the mast, arms crossed, his sharp golden eyes watching Ada's still form.
He smirked faintly. "It's that time again."
Bullet, polishing a chunk of steel near the railing, looked up. "What do you mean?"
Mihawk tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing at the horizon. "Every year around this time, she gets like this. Quiet. Restless."
Enel, lounging in a chair with his drum-like wings faintly sparking, snorted. "You mean she's even scarier when she's not saying anything?"
"Something like that," Mihawk replied dryly.
Fisher Tiger, perched near the stern, looked up from tying new ropes. "So the sea isn't the only thing that storms in silence," he said softly.
There was a brief lull as thunder rolled distantly across the horizon.
Ada didn't speak, but her presence carried through the deck — an invisible gravity that even the likes of Bullet and Enel could feel. The air around her was heavy, like the calm before a tempest.
Finally, Mihawk pushed off from the mast, walking toward her. "You'll drown if you keep staring at the horizon that long."
Ada's lips curved slightly. "Maybe that's what it takes to see what lies beneath."
He stopped beside her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "The past, you mean?"
Ada didn't answer right away. Her gaze softened, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "The past has long hands, Mihawk. It drags you back whether you want it to or not."
Mihawk studied her silently. Even now, he couldn't read her — that same commanding calm masking something far more fragile beneath.
After a moment, he shrugged. "You're the only person I know who looks at the sea and thinks it's a mirror."
She smirked faintly. "And you're the only swordsman I know who thinks he's a philosopher."
That earned a quiet chuckle from him. "Fair enough."
Enel's voice carried from across the deck. "Oi, are we just gonna stand here talking about feelings, or are we actually gonna sail?"
Mihawk gave him a sharp look. "You talk too much."
Enel grumbled but turned away, pretending to nap again. Bullet tossed his rag onto the barrel. "She doesn't talk about it, huh?"
"No," Mihawk said quietly. "She never does."
The thunder outside grew closer, a single flash of lightning illuminating Ada's face — calm but distant, like a memory that refused to fade.
———————-
Later That Night — Captain's Quarters
Rain pattered softly against the glass window. Ada sat alone, the flickering candlelight dancing over the logbook open before her.
Her handwriting flowed neatly across the page.
"Sea Circle Calendar, 1507."
"The storm season begins again."
"The world continues to turn, oblivious to what it's lost."
"Sometimes, I wonder if the sea remembers him the way I do."
She paused, her pen hovering above the ink.
Then she wrote one last line.
"Happy birthday, my son."
The candle flickered — and for a moment, it looked as if her reflection in the window smiled back at her.
———————
On Deck
Mihawk stepped out onto the rain-slick deck, eyes lifting to the storm above. The others had long gone below deck, leaving only the sound of waves and distant thunder.
He exhaled quietly, shaking his head. "She's strong enough to carry the world, but even she can't fight ghosts."
Below the deck, Okiku and Hiyori sat together near the lantern light, whispering softly.
"Captain seems… lonely tonight," Hiyori murmured.
Okiku nodded gently. "Even the strongest waves crash when no one's watching."
——————
The Next Morning
By dawn, the storm had passed. The sea gleamed like glass beneath the morning sun.
Ada stood once more at the bow, wind brushing her hair back, her usual composure returned.
Bullet stretched and grumbled. "Heh. Looks like the captain's back to normal."
Mihawk smirked. "Until next year."
Ada turned slightly toward them, her expression unreadable — though there was a flicker of warmth in her eyes. "What was that, Mihawk?"
"Nothing," he said smoothly. "Just admiring the weather."
Ada gave a faint smile. "Then enjoy it while it lasts."
A quiet smile then ghosted her lips.
"Grow strong, little one," she whispered into the wind. "The sea is waiting."
The storm broke, thunder rolling like a heartbeat across the horizon. The Oro Jackson sailed on — cutting through lightning and rain like a promise.
And somewhere far away, on a small island, a boy laughed at the sky — the same storm laughing back at him.
As the Oro Jackson cut through the bright sea, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance — not a threat, but a memory, echoing beneath the waves.