The man wakes on a beach of black sand, salt in
his hair, a rusted net coiled around his wrist.
No name, no place. The sky is wrong—too blue,
too still.
He stumbles inland, finds a village of collapsed
roofs and broken windows. A church bell rings
once, then dies. No people. No animals. Only the
sea, lapping at the edges of the world.
He finds a boat, halfsunken, its hull etched
with symbols. When he touches them, the water
shivers. A memory flickers: a woman’s voice, a
warning, a storm.
He rows out past the breakers, where the sea
turns to glass. A structure rises—a tower of
coral and stone, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Inside, a chamber holds a mirror. His reflection
shows a different face, older, lined with war.
The mirror speaks. It says his name is Seán, and
he was part of a group that tried to seal the
tides. They failed. The sea is alive, and it
remembers.
He returns to the village, finds a hidden cellar
beneath the pub. A map of the coast, marked with
red pins. Each represents a place where the sea
has swallowed something—people, ships, entire
homes.
He follows the map, finds a lighthouse. Inside,
a journal. It describes a ritual to calm the
tides, but the final page is torn. The last
entry reads: “They are coming back.”
At midnight, the sea surges. The village lifts,
walls peeling away as the ground cracks open.
From the depths, figures emerge—halfhuman,
halfwater, their eyes hollow.
Seán stands at the edge, the net in his hands.
He throws it into the air. The symbols glow. The
creatures hesitate. The sea begins to recede.
The village settles. The sky darkens. The tide
is still, but not quiet.
Seán walks away, the net now empty. The sea
watches. It waits.
