The wind whispered through the trees as Mira stood on the rocky cliffs, her eyes fixed on the endless horizon. The sea stretched before her, dark and mysterious, its surface glimmering under the pale moonlight. She felt its pull in her chest—deep, ancient, like a call she couldn't ignore. It had always been like this, ever since she could remember. But tonight, there was something different. Something restless.
Behind her, the small island seemed still, its narrow paths winding between sparse homes and lush greenery.There was only one building on the island that mattered now—her aunt's house. The same house Mira had been living in ever since her parents had disappeared years ago, leaving her alone in the world.
Her aunt, Ethel, had never been a warm presence. Mira had only vague memories of the woman from her childhood—before her mother's disappearance had taken them both away from the mainland. Since then, Ethel had kept herself distant, cold, and more concerned with her own life than with raising Mira. She often found comfort in silence, just as Mira did. The island, though beautiful, was also isolating. It was as if the ocean itself had swallowed the world whole, leaving only them behind.
Mira had never questioned it much—until recently. Now, every day seemed like a reminder that the world beyond the island still existed, and she felt trapped in a place she didn't understand. Her aunt never spoke of her past, nor did she offer any comfort when Mira tried to talk about her mother.
She had to admit, part of her had hoped things would change when they moved to the island. That the sea, its endless rhythm, might bring them closer together. But Aunt Ethel was always distant, always absorbed in her routines, barely acknowledging her niece.
Tonight, however, was different. Mira could feel it in the air—the tension, the anticipation of something that was about to unfold. The sea, with its ancient mysteries, was calling to her again.
"Mira," her aunt's voice rang from behind, sharp and cutting through the quiet. "Don't stand there. It's too dangerous."
Mira didn't move, though she could hear the concern in her aunt's tone. Instead, she stepped closer to the edge, her fingers brushing the cold stone of the cliff. Her heart thudded as she stared into the endless abyss below, the water swirling like it was alive.
"What are you looking at?" Aunt Ethel asked, stepping closer. She didn't seem angry—just weary, like she always was when the conversation didn't revolve around something practical.
Mira turned to face her aunt, her gaze steady. She wanted to say something—to explain—to ask questions. But she didn't. Words had always been a struggle between them. They never seemed to connect, never seemed to understand.
Aunt Ethel sighed and placed a hand on Mira's shoulder. "You're not your mother. You know that, right?" Her voice was soft, almost too soft for Mira to trust it.
But Mira didn't respond. She couldn't. Her mother had been the one who understood the sea, who had always known what the tides meant, what the whispers in the water said. Mira's mother had taught her everything she knew.
"I'll be inside," Aunt Ethel muttered before turning back toward the house.
Mira watched her go, then looked back out at the sea. The ocean's pull felt stronger now, like it was drawing her in. There was something she needed to understand—something only the sea could tell her.