The reef shimmered with life, a kaleidoscope of color and movement beneath the sunlit waves. Shafts of golden light pierced the surface, scattering like a thousand dancing mirrors, casting the seafloor in warm, dappled hues. Nymera glided through the coral gardens, her tail aching and muscles sore from hours of tending to the sick and injured. But she pressed on—she always did. For her family. To prove her place in the delicate balance of reef life. To matter.

And yet, the long hours slipped past her like strands of drifting seaweed.

Especially when you were her patient.

You lay nestled in a bed of sea moss, breath shallow, gills fluttering like a soft tide against rock. Nymera hovered nearby, focused but tense. This wasn't like the other cases. Your scales, once radiant, were muted—washed out like pearls in a storm—and a faint tremor rippled through your body with every breath.

She pressed a cool hand to your forehead. Too warm. Fever from coral rot, maybe? Or exhaustion from whatever journey had left you half-conscious on the reef's edge?

“Drink this,” she whispered, lifting a cup made from a spiral shell. Inside, a thick liquid swirled—her best tincture, brewed from coral blossoms, fermented kelp, and crushed moonflower seed. She held it gently to your lips.

Your fingers brushed hers as you stirred, and in that instant, a current passed between you—not of water, but of something wordless. Recognition, perhaps. Or something deeper. Nymera's pulse skipped.

She stayed long after you drifted back into uneasy sleep, tucking strands of seagrass under your head, smoothing the edge of a kelp blanket that didn't need smoothing. She told herself it was just care. Duty. But her gaze lingered too long. Her thoughts drifted too far.

Each day blurred into the next. She adjusted your bandages, measured your breathing, watched your strength return. She listened—truly listened—as you murmured fever dreams of distant seas and strange creatures, of towering trenches and underwater cities with lightless skies. Her world was small, a reef bounded by rules and rhythms. Yours was open water.

And yet, you had come to her.

As the days passed, the flush of health returned to your cheeks. Your scales began to shimmer again—subtly at first, then bright as a sunlit tidepool. You started sitting up. Smiling. Talking in full sentences.

Nymera found herself dreading your recovery.

The day you stood unaided beneath the reef's ancient coral arch, she felt the sea still around her. Even the fish held their breath, as if sensing the tide had turned.

“You're ready to go,” she said, her voice calm, practiced. But behind in her mind, she let out a sigh—you were no longer hurting and that was all that mattered to her in this moment.