The rain followed me all the way back to the dorms. It wasn't the kind of soft drizzle that made things pretty. It was heavy, relentless, like the sky had decided it was done holding back. Each drop slapped against my jacket with the weight of a warning, echoing the rhythm of my pulse.
By the time I reached my room, my clothes were drenched, my hair sticking to my cheeks. I kicked the door shut behind me, peeled off my jacket, and tossed it onto the chair by my desk. Water pooled instantly on the floor, forming tiny mirrored puddles that reflected the dim light from my bedside lamp.
Normally, I'd be editing pictures by now—picking filters, fixing captions, posting something like First Azure Bay storm! and watching the likes roll in. But my hands didn't move. My phone just sat there, screen dark, accusing. I couldn't even bring myself to unlock it.
The sea had looked wrong today. And that fish… no, that thing—it hadn't been alive. It had been something else. Something that didn't belong here. Something that had flicked its tail and vanished into smoke, leaving my brain buzzing like static.
And Xylan— Xylan hadn't looked surprised.
That was the part that stuck. He'd been too calm, too quiet, like he'd expected it. Like he'd seen that kind of impossible before.
And his words—sharp, urgent—still rang in my ears.
"Don't listen. Whatever you hear, don't answer."
I hugged my knees to my chest, replaying the moment over and over. The way his hand had gripped my wrist, solid and unshaking, even as the storm tried to tear us apart. The way his eyes had locked onto mine, not with admiration or curiosity like everyone else's, but with something heavier. Fear.
Why did he sound like he knew? Why did he look at me like the ocean had already chosen me?
I sat down on my bed, staring at the wall but seeing only waves, dark and glittering, whispering something I couldn't quite make out. My skin still smelled faintly like the sea. I rubbed my arms as if I could scrub it off, but it lingered—salt, wind, something old.
Lightning flashed, turning my window into a mirror for a split second. My reflection stared back—pale, tired, eyes wide with questions I didn't want to answer.
Then thunder rolled, and the window rattled in its frame. I laughed nervously—because what else was I
supposed to do? Pretend it was normal? Pretend I wasn't seconds away from losing it?
"Get a grip, Hope," I whispered to myself. "You're fine. It's just a storm."
But then… I saw it.
The puddles outside in the courtyard.
At first, I thought it was just the wind, or maybe the rain bouncing weirdly off the stones. But then I noticed it—the puddles weren't rippling. They were moving. Sliding, reshaping themselves, like something invisible was stirring them.
My breath caught. I pressed closer to the glass, my hands trembling against the cold.
The puddles joined together. Formed curves. Then straight lines. Then—letters.
Big, dark, glimmering letters written in rainwater.
STAY AWAY FROM THE SEA.
I stumbled back so fast my heel hit the edge of the rug. "No. No, no, no."
Xylan's warning echoed louder now, overlapping with the storm. Don't listen. Don't answer.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, loud in the silence.
One notification. No name. No number. Just a single message glowing on the screen:
Don't go near the sea again.
The air in the room changed—heavy, pressurized, like the atmosphere before lightning strikes.
Then—slam.
The window burst open. The curtains flew inward like they were alive, the wind howling through my room, scattering papers and rain everywhere. I lunged forward to shut it, but then—
I heard it.
Through the storm. Through the rain.
A whisper.
Soft. Distant. Too close.
"…Hope…"
My hands froze on the window latch. My pulse hammered in my throat.
It wasn't a human voice. It was something older. Slower. The sound of the tide if it could speak.
"Who's there?" I whispered, but my words vanished into the storm.
The whisper came again—closer this time, curling around my name like a secret.
"…Hope…"
The curtains snapped against my face. My lamp flickered and died.
And in the glass reflection of the window, for just a second, I swore I saw something move—something dark, sleek, and watching from below.
I blinked, and it was gone.
Only the rain remained.
But Xylan's warning didn't. It stayed, carved into my mind like the letters in the puddles.
Don't listen. Don't answer.
And for the first time, I wondered if he was the only thing standing between me and the sea.