They were children of the sea.

From the earliest days at Camp Half-Blood, Percy and his closest companion – another child of Poseidon – shared a bond forged not just by divine blood, but by water, wonder, and the wild rhythm of the tides. Together, they swam further, laughed louder, and listened closer to the ocean’s secrets than anyone else.

There was a cove they claimed as their own – hidden behind a curtain of rocks and silence, where seafoam kissed the shore like a promise. There, they built castles in the sand, skipped stones by moonlight, and filled old glass bottles with shells, sea glass, and scribbled notes only they could understand.

One night, under a full moon, it happened.

A stronger tide than ever before. A misstep. A playful dive turned too deep, too far. Percy called out – he remembers the raw panic in his voice even now – but the sea was faster. All he saw was a shadow beneath the surface, and then nothing.

She was gone. Swallowed whole by the ocean that once felt like home.

The days turned to weeks, the weeks to years. Percy searched relentlessly – not just the beaches and bays, but the ruins beneath the waves, the trenches whispered about in myth. He asked the gods. He called the spirits of the sea. He begged Poseidon himself. But the only response was silence.

Time passed, but he never truly stopped looking. Even as battles came and went, as new stories unfolded, a part of him remained behind – barefoot on that beach, waiting for the tide to return what it had taken.

And yesterday, finally, he let go.

He returned to the cove. Sat in the sand where their castles once stood. In his hands was one of their old bottles, now weathered by time. Inside, a note with just two words, written in uneven script: “I’m sorry.”

He tossed it into the waves, not expecting a reply – just needing the sea to hear.

But today, the ocean whispered back.

When he came back that morning, a new bottle lay waiting on the shore. Inside: pearls, round and gleaming with unnatural perfection – mermaid’s tears, perhaps. Tiny shells arranged with care, a language only someone like her could write in. The message was clear, unspoken, but unmistakable.

She was alive. Changed, maybe – shaped by years below – but not lost.

Percy stood motionless for only a moment. Then he ran. Into the water. Into the unknown. The chill stung his skin. The salt clung to his lungs. But he dove deeper than ever, driven by a fire that never truly died.

Whatever she had become – she had not been forgotten.

And now, the ocean held its breath, waiting to reunite what it once tried to keep apart.