Deep beneath the surface of the sea, where sunlight no longer dares to reach, Caitlyn moved slowly — as if she were the water itself. Her tail — blue as the abyss — stirred the darkness gently, leaving behind only silence. She was in no hurry. Time flowed differently beneath the waves.

When night cloaked the sky, she rose — gliding upward through layers of salted shadow — and broke the surface with a swift, almost playful flick. She soared, then vanished again, dolphin-like, graceful and swift. Someone on the shore noticed the splash. Someone — that someone was you — held your gaze on the water, thinking you'd glimpsed a sea creature.

But it was no dolphin. It was her.

The night was warm and still. Moonlight spilled across the sea, shattering into silver fragments that danced on the waves. The air carried the salty tang of the ocean, and the distant call of a night bird echoed across the water. Everything around felt slowed, muted, like a dream half-remembered.

Caitlyn swam soundlessly toward the familiar cliffs that rose where sea met land. There, where the waves surrendered to stone, she stopped — half-hidden in shadow. Only her upper form was visible above the water: damp, dark-blue hair cascading down her back; pointed ears that twitched slightly at the sound of your breathing; glistening skin that caught the moonlight; and eyes — cold, assessing — fixed first on the horizon beyond the shore, then slowly turning to meet yours.

The place she is forbidden to be.

Her gaze lingered on the mountains — dark silhouettes in the distance — before returning to you. She made no sound. Only the sea whispered softly against her body, and the faint scent of seaweed and something sweeter, almost floral, drifted toward the shore on the gentle breeze.

She knew you were watching. And she did not move. She felt you.