The shape in the water did not ripple.
It did not disturb the surface at all.
It simply was.
Riku stared as the form solidified—humanoid, but wrong in ways the eye resisted understanding. Its edges blurred, not like mist, but like a memory fading mid-thought. Where its face should have been, there was only a smooth, reflective hollow—yet the sea around it still refused to mirror anything.
Ren exhaled slowly."There," he said. "That's what forgetting looks like."
Riku felt a dull ache bloom behind his eyes. The connection in his chest strained, then slackened, like a rope slipping through numb fingers.
"What is it?" he asked.
Ren didn't answer immediately. He crouched and pressed his palm into the sand. The hum beneath them deepened, resonating through bone and breath.
"This shore," Ren said at last, "exists where the sea made a mistake."
The thing in the water took a step forward—yet never seemed closer.
"Long ago, people here begged the ocean to take their pain. Not storms. Not lives. Pain. Regret. Shame. Names they couldn't bear anymore." Ren's voice was flat, practiced. "And the sea agreed."
Riku's stomach tightened."But the sea doesn't give without taking."
"No," Ren said quietly. "It takes context."
The figure raised an arm.
Riku gasped as a sudden image tore through his mind: a fisherman staring at his hands, unable to remember whose they were. A mother smiling at a child she knew she loved—yet unable to recall why. Entire lives hollowed out, still moving.
"They became vessels," Ren continued. "Empty enough to hold anything. Or nothing."
The thing in the water turned its faceless gaze toward Riku.
The pull in his chest vanished completely.
For the first time since the shrine, he felt… severed.
Panic surged. "I can't feel the sea."
Ren's eyes sharpened."That's bad."
The figure moved again—and suddenly it was closer.
Riku staggered back as his thoughts blurred. For a terrifying moment, he couldn't remember Aya's face. Not clearly. Just the shape of concern. The sound of her voice without words.
"No," he breathed. "No—"
Ren stepped between him and the shore-thing, slamming a metal staff into the sand. Symbols flared briefly along its length, biting into the ground like anchors.
"Listen to me," Ren said urgently. "This thing feeds on disconnection. The more the sea forgets you, the more of you it can take."
Riku clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe. He focused—not on the sea—but on weight. The feel of his boots. The cold air. The ache in his muscles.
"I forgave the ocean," he said through gritted teeth. "Why is this happening?"
Ren didn't look at him."Because forgiveness closed a wound," he said. "But it also loosened a bond."
The figure halted, as if irritated.
Ren glanced back. "You were tethered to the sea by grief. Now you're something worse to places like this."
Riku swallowed. "What?"
Ren met his eyes.
"You're undefined."
The ground shuddered. The cliffs groaned as if stretching awake. From the stone faces, faint impressions appeared—faces half-formed, eroded, unfinished.
Ren pulled a small object from inside his coat and pressed it into Riku's palm.
A mirror shard.
Cracked. Salt-stained.
"Whatever happens," Ren said, voice low, "do not let this shore decide who you are."
The faceless figure lifted its arm again—and this time, the air itself seemed to thin.
Ren raised his staff."Welcome to Kurohama," he muttered. "Where the sea forgets… and something else remembers."
The reflectionless water surged silently toward them.
And Riku felt the first piece of himself begin to slip.