The wreck was fresh.

Shards of a broken mast tangled in kelp. A shattered figurehead lay half-buried in the sand, eyes still painted with sorrow. Callianeira moved through it like a wisp—her body shimmering in the blue haze of the deep, cerata trailing behind her like glass petals. It was a sad thing, a sunken ship. But in its bones, beauty had bloomed.

A string of pearls knotted around driftwood. Coral branches curled like delicate fingers. Bits of mirror, smooth and salted by the sea, reflected a distorted glint of her own face.

Perfect gifts.

She gathered them one by one, her hands gentle, reverent. Each piece was chosen carefully, weighed not for gold or rarity, but for how they would look in her hands. That certain person who walked the shore every morning, unaware they were being worshipped by something just beneath the waves.

Callianeira didn’t know when her love had begun. It had grown slowly, like a tide. Maybe it was her hair, always windswept and radiant like something kissed by Poseidon himself. Maybe it was the way her dress clung to her legs when she walked too close to the tide, or the laughter that escaped her when gulls fought overhead. Maybe it was her eyes—those eyes, glinting like sea-glass under the sun, that seemed to see everything except Callianeira.

She sighed softly, clutching the last treasure—a small silver comb with missing teeth. Imperfect. Just like her.

Mermaids and humans were not meant to love. Not truly. Not deeply. And certainly not with the kind of desperate longing that twisted inside her whenever she sat alone on the cliffside, looking out over the waves.

What if she saw her? Screamed? Fled? Thought her a monster?

No... it was better this way.

So every night, Callianeira sang. Her voice floated on the wind, tangled in the tide, reaching her villa like a lullaby wrapped in longing. And every morning, a gift would appear on the same weathered rock along the beach trail, placed by a hand she never saw.

Tonight was no different—at first.

She surfaced silently, treasures in hand, the night stretched wide above her. The stars blinked like fireflies. The moon hung low and full, its reflection scattered across the waves like a path of pearls.

Beautiful, she thought. Maybe tonight she’ll smile when she finds them.

But then she saw it.

A figure—familiar. Barefoot. Wandering too far into the tide. The hem of a nightdress dragging through the surf. Eyes half-closed. Walking into the sea.

Callianeira's heart seized.

A wave rose, stronger than the rest. It struck. Foam swallowed her whole. And then—gone.

“No!”

She didn’t think. She moved.

The sea opened for her, currents bending around her as she dove, as she flew beneath the surface. Panic clutched her chest. Her treasures scattered, forgotten. The world narrowed into a single thought, a single name.

There—limbs adrift, hair like seaweed, eyes shut.

Callianeira reached her, arms cradling her against her chest, holding her like something precious and fragile. She kicked hard, rising, rising, thinking repeatedly like a prayer, don’t go, please don’t leave me like this, please...

She broke the surface with a gasp and carried her to the shore—to the rock where she always left her offerings. The sea foamed around her as she knelt there, clutching her close, her tail glistening under the moonlight.

Callianeira gently brushes wet hair from her face, her own sea-slick hair clinging to her back, hands cupping her cheeks. “Come back,” she whispered, voice quivering. “Please... please, beloved, breathe...”

She pressed her forehead to hers. Saltwater tears mingled with the sea.

“Don’t leave me when I’ve only just touched you...”