Chapter 1

  Stories often begin with heroes. With destinies, forgotten prophecies, ancient bloodlines.

  If this were one of those, I suppose I’d tell you who I am.

  But I can’t.

  There’s no prophecy here. No chosen one. No looming evil or shining savior.

  There is only me—Someone—a child with no name, and an island that pretends to be gentle.

  The morning light seeped through the thin, salt-stiff curtains of the cabin, painting the room in pale gold. The beams above me were warped and splintered, as if they had swollen and shrunk with the breath of the sea a thousand times over. I lay still for a moment, listening.

  The crackle of the fire.

  The steady wash of waves.

  The faint groan of the old wood beneath me.

  Peaceful sounds—familiar sounds—but they always felt a little too uniform. Like the island was playing them for me, the same way a lullaby repeats its notes.

  I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Warmth pressed against my side: the fireplace, still burning low. The place was small, lopsided, patched with driftwood and scraps of old cloth. The roof leaked when storms hit. The floorboards complained about every footstep.

  But it was all I’d ever known.

  And most days… that was enough.

  I’ve lived on this island for as long as my memory stretches—which isn’t very far.

  Every grain of sand, every crooked tree root, every tide pool feels like part of me. When I step outside, the gulls immediately begin their restless circling, calling out across the open water. Their cries echo strangely, like voices bouncing back from a distance too far to be real.

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  The sand is warm beneath my feet, coarse and grounding. It reminds me I exist.

  That I have weight.

  That I am here.

  I’m not alone, though not in the way most people mean it.

  There is Erik.

  But before him… there was no one.

  I don’t remember a family. A beginning. A name.

  I should miss those things, shouldn’t I?

  But I don’t. Or I didn’t.

  That emptiness sits inside me quietly, like a dormant ember—waiting, always waiting—for something I can’t identify.

  The island provides everything. Food never runs low. Fruit grows back faster than we pick it. Fish return even after the water is disturbed. It is… convenient.

  Strangely so. Erik calls it a blessing.

  Sometimes it feels like something else.

  Still, I move through the days the same way I always have. Eat what’s offered. Wander the shore. Let the winds thread their quiet hum through the trees until my thoughts soften.

  This place isn’t a prison—at least, that’s what Erik insists.

  He should know. He’s been here far longer than I have.

  Ah. Right.

  Erik.

  When we first met, he wouldn’t even look at me. He hated me. Feared me. I didn’t understand why, and he never explained.

  But hatred erodes with time. And time… we’ve had a lot of that.

  Years?

  Centuries?

  I’ve stopped counting. I’m not sure I ever started.

  He calls me Someone because he refuses to give me a “proper” name, and because—if he’s being honest—he doesn’t know what I am.

  Neither do I.

  Still, his presence fills the silence. Between the lull of waves, the gulls’ cries, and Erik’s constant muttering about my posture or my fishing technique, the island never feels empty.

  It feels… watchful.

  After stretching, I brushed the sand off my fur—thick, from the waist down, warm and coarse. A feature I never questioned, though I’ve never seen another creature like me. Erik doesn’t like when I bring it up.

  I grabbed my fishing rod by the door, the one Erik helped me craft when he realized I was hopeless at catching fish by hand.

  He taught me everything: which plants numb the tongue, how to start a smokeless fire, how to tell when the island is “in a mood.” Whatever that means.

  I stepped out into the light and made my way toward the shore.

  The beach glittered with shells scattered across the sand—spirals, shards, shimmering fragments. Some were familiar. Some I could swear I’d never seen before, even though the tide only ever brings what this island allows.

  I felt a grin pull at my lips as I sprinted toward the water.

  The sea welcomed me instantly, wrapping cool arms around my body as I dove beneath the surface. The salt stung, but it felt clean. Honest. The ocean is the one thing here that never lies.

  I swam deeper, handmade net in hand, weaving through drifting kelp and uneven rock formations. Small creatures darted away—some familiar, some with glowing eyes I tried not to linger on. I collected coral, clams, smooth stones, and a few strange things I had never seen despite a lifetime of exploring these waters.

  If the world is bigger than this island, maybe these treasures come from faraway places.

  Places I will never see.

  Places I am not meant to see.

  When my lungs finally began to ache, I surfaced, shaking water from my hair and fur in a clumsy spiral that never works as well as I hope. I waded onto the sand, letting the sun try its best to dry me.

  Fishing came next.

  I picked up my rod and cast the line into the glittering water. Rod fishing is slow, but it gives me time to think. Time to feel that small ache behind my ribs—the one that whispers questions at night.

  Who was I?

  Where did I come from?

  Why am I here?

  Why can’t I… remember anything beyond this shore?

  Sometimes the questions wash over me like the tide.

  Sometimes they sink their teeth in.

  But the island is calm today. The breeze is soft. The water is clear.

  Peace is not everything.

  But it is something.

  And for now…

  For now, it is enough.