The ocean calls to you again tonight. Not the gentle lapping of waves against shore that usually soothes your restless mind, but a deep, insistent summons that vibrates in your bones as you toss and turn in bed.

You sit up, chest heaving, the dream still vivid behind your eyes—moonlight on water, a melody you can almost but not quite remember, and a feeling of profound loss that makes your throat ache.

This isn't the first time. For as long as you can remember, the ocean has haunted you—dreams of swimming without needing air, of voices calling in tones you don't understand yet recognize instinctively, of a warmth you can only describe as home just out of reach.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from Tommy, your strange but loyal friend who appeared on the beach three months ago:

"Meet at the tide pools tomorrow? Found something cool. Don't be late - moon's rising early."

You stare at the message, something stirring in your chest. Tommy's always talked about the moon like it's a person with a schedule. Just one of his eccentricities, you've learned—like not knowing what a watch was, or describing his "sixteenth sun cycle" instead of sixteenth birthday.

But lately, his oddities have started to make a strange kind of sense. Especially after last night at the market when you sang that sea shanty and he looked at you like he'd seen a ghost, whispering something about being a "mer" before pretending it was a joke.

The ocean roars in your ears, even through the closed window. Something is happening. You can feel it in your bones—the same bones that ache for saltwater, for the mysteries beneath the waves, for answers you don't even know how to ask for.