The event was barely a ceremony, with only a small crowd gathered near the dark water. Yet, to the boy, it felt like the most important moment of his life. Suspended above the surface of the water by a strong, massive arm, its silver, translucent scales glimmering faintly in the light, he felt oddly secure. The arm that held him seemed powerful and protective, but beneath him, the water loomed, vast and foreboding.

  Around him, people were murmuring—a song, perhaps. More onlookers had gathered by the water’s edge, and this made the boy feel even more significant, though with that sense of importance came a creeping embarrassment. He tried to smile, the kind of awkward smile someone wears when they’re caught in an uncomfortable situation. But the smile faltered almost as soon as it appeared.

  Some of the well-dressed people, the ones he had been taught to admire, cheered for him, their faces bright with encouragement. In an attempt to join in, the boy swung his arm and tried to mimic their excitement, but every time he did, something felt wrong. His actions failed him, his movements clumsy and disconnected. And always, his eyes drifted downward, drawn to the water below. It was there, always waiting, always looming.

  As he dangled, caught between his desire to please the crowd and his growing unease, the boy noticed something else: not everyone was cheering. Some in the crowd wore somber expressions, their faces clouded with sadness, while others stared with a fury he couldn’t comprehend. He didn’t understand why some were joyful and others seemed to mourn, or why certain faces radiated anger. He was lost in a stupor of confusion, oblivious to the gravity of the moment.

  A woman stood nearby, close to the man holding him. She resembled him—not in her strength, but in her otherworldly beauty. Her scales shimmered like those of a magnificent fish, and the boy had always thought of her kind as the “beautiful fish people.” He didn’t know their real name, only that they were strange and enchanting. Staring at the water, the boy realized how little he truly knew about anything at all.

  The dark water beneath him seemed to ripple with something more than just the current. As he gazed into its depths, it was as if his own memories began to play out on the surface, reflections of a life filled with frailty. He realized then, in a painful flash of clarity, that he was a weak boy, a boy who had never understood the world around him. He was always the one who broke things, always the one who disappointed others. He could not fight or hunt, and now, suspended over the edge of this pier, he didn’t even know why he was here. His lack of understanding gnawed at him, and he muttered “stupid” under his breath, knocking his head lightly as if to shake loose the answers. All the while, the woman continued her chant, her voice soft and melodic, a song meant for him, yet distant and unreachable.

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  As the sounds around him began to fade, the boy’s attention returned to the water. Now that the distractions were gone, it called to him, pulling his gaze deeper into its shadowy depths. The world around him seemed to quiet, and in that silence, his eyes captured the full expanse of the dark water. And in that water, he saw them.

  Specters. Pale, ghostly forms with arms raised from the depths, reaching upward—reaching for him.

  The sight struck him. In that moment, the truth that had always eluded him became clear. He glanced back at the audience, at the faces of those who cheered with fervor and those who couldn’t bear to look. He looked at the woman beside him, whose eyes briefly flickered toward him before drifting away and shutting, as if she could not face what was happening. His gaze traveled to the man whose powerful arms held him, and for the first time, the boy saw his face clearly.

  He looked again at the water and understood. Not just the truth of this moment, but the truth that had escaped him all his life. The injustice of it, the cruelty. He saw the sin buried beneath the surface of his existence, and as he watched, the moon above bled silver into the sky.

  He thrashed and pleaded, terror rising in him like a tide. He begged for release, for mercy. But there was none. The man holding him showed no sign of acknowledgment, no response to his cries. His struggles meant nothing.

  And so, the boy wept. Silent, wrenching sobs, with no one to hear him but the distant moon, cold and unfeeling in the sky. The waters, however, were not distant. They called to him, and soon enough, the call was answered. He was dropped.

  The plunge into the cold water was shocking. He fought to stay on the surface, his arms flailing desperately as he gasped for air. For a brief moment, he saw the faces of the people peering down at him from above, their expressions shadowed in the dim light. But the water was heavy, pulling him down, dragging him deeper into the abyss.

  He sank. Deeper and deeper, the cold enveloping him. The specters, the drowned souls from the past, reached for him with pale, skeletal fingers. They brushed against him as he descended into the blackness, their touch as cold as the water itself.

  He felt himself surrendering. Maybe this was where he belonged, lost among the forgotten, sinking into the darkness with the specters of those who had come before. He was ready to resign to his fate.

  But then, something stirred. In the distance, something moved. Writhing. Slithering through the water, closer and closer. It was no specter, no ghost from the past. It was something real, something alive.

  The boy’s heart raced. The thing drew nearer, its form indistinct, but terrifying. It was coming for him.

  It was coming for him amidst all that darkness and nothing would ever remain the same.