Greyshore changed without anyone noticing.
There was no moment where the villagers gathered and decided Joe belonged. No spoken agreement, no ceremony. It happened the way the sea reshaped stone—slow, quiet, inevitable.
Joe noticed it in the smallest ways.
Someone saving him a place near the fire.
A fisherman handing him the better knife without being asked.
Children calling his name instead of waving silently.
"Joe!"
He turned instinctively now.
That mattered.
A year passed.
Joe was eight.
His mornings began the same way—running the shoreline while the sun climbed slowly out of the sea. At first, the villagers thought he was fleeing something. Now they understood better.
"He's training," Rook said once, sharpening his blade. "Just don't ask why."
They didn't.
Joe liked that.
After running came work. Nets. Wood.
Carrying water. Fixing roofs after storms. He never complained, never rushed. If something needed doing, he did it.
Not because he owed them.
Because this was his place.
One afternoon, while repairing the pier, a younger boy slipped and scraped his knee badly. He froze, lips trembling, eyes wide as blood welled up.
Joe crouched immediately.
"It's fine," he said calmly, tearing a strip from his sleeve. "Hurts now. Stops later."
The boy sniffed. "You sure?"
Joe nodded, tying the cloth carefully. "Yeah. Pain doesn't last if you don't feed it."
The boy stared at him as if he'd been handed a secret.
That evening, as villagers gathered near the fire, conversation drifted lazily—from weather to fish to rumors carried by the sea.
"I heard a Marine ship passed the outer islands again," someone said.
"Chasing pirates?" another asked.
"Always," an old fisherman snorted. "Same as that mad hero Marine."
"Ah, that one," someone laughed. "The one who throws kids into jungles to make them strong."
Laughter rippled through the group.
Joe's smile faltered—just for a heartbeat.
Throws kids into jungles?
He said nothing. Didn't look up. But the words lodged somewhere deep.
So that's how he does it, Joe thought calmly.
Interesting.
Later, Old Mira watched Joe distribute fish to the elders before taking his own portion.
"You act like an adult trapped in a child's body," she said.
Joe tilted his head. "Is that bad?"
She considered it. "No. Just… heavy."
Joe didn't answer right away.
When they sat beside the fire later, he spoke quietly.
"I don't feel heavy here."
Mira glanced at him, surprised.
Joe stared into the flames. "Before… it always felt like I was borrowing time. Like I wasn't allowed to waste it."
"And now?" she asked.
Joe smiled faintly. "Now I wake up tired because I ran too much. Or because Rook hit me with a stick."
Mira huffed. "That man would hit a tree if it leaned the wrong way."
Joe nodded. "Yeah. But he teaches me."
She studied him closely. "You don't ask for much."
"I don't need much," Joe replied.
That wasn't entirely true.
That night, when the island slept, Joe sat alone near the edge of the forest. The daggers rested across his knees, cool and familiar. He moved slowly—draw, angle, withdraw—each motion deliberate.
He wasn't trying to become deadly.
He was trying to become reliable.
He paused, staring at the blades.
"I won't draw these unless I have to," he murmured. "And never to scare someone weaker than me."
The forest didn't answer.
But the rule settled inside him anyway.
Strength wasn't permission.
It was responsibility.
Rook watched once from the treeline.
"You're not swinging like someone who wants to win," Rook said.
Joe didn't stop moving. "Winning ends things."
"And what do you want?"
Joe paused. "To keep going."
Rook said nothing more.
The next day, the children dragged Joe into games whose rules changed every few minutes. Someone declared him "it" for no clear reason, and suddenly everyone scattered.
Joe chased them, laughing when he tripped, laughing harder when he tackled the wrong kid and got sand thrown in his face.
"You're slow!" one of them yelled.
Joe narrowed his eyes. "I was distracted."
"By what?"
Joe pointed dramatically. "The sun."
They stared at him—then burst into laughter.
When Joe finally collapsed into the sand, staring up at the sky, his sides aching, he realized something strange.
I don't feel guilty for wasting time.
The thought surprised him.
And made him smile wider.
Another season passed.
Joe's eighth birthday arrived quietly—which was why it surprised him when Mira shoved a small wrapped bundle into his hands that morning.
"What's this?" Joe asked.
"Open it," she said gruffly.
Inside lay a simple bracelet—woven cord with a sea-blue stone.
"For remembering where you stood," she said.
"In case you get lost later."
Joe held it longer than necessary.
"I won't forget," he said softly.
Mira snorted. "Everyone says that."
That evening, Rook didn't train him.
They sat overlooking the sea.
"You're getting attached," Rook said.
Joe nodded. "Yeah."
"That's dangerous."
Joe considered it. "Only if I forget why."
Rook studied him. "And why is that?"
Joe looked toward the horizon. "So when I leave, I won't regret staying."
That answer earned silence.
Not disapproval.
Respect.
That night, Joe dreamed—not of blood or broken glass, but of waves, laughter, and running without destination.
When he woke, his chest felt light.
The island had taught him something unexpected.
Strength wasn't just endurance.
It was knowing what you were protecting.
Standing at the shore later, bracelet loose around his wrist, daggers resting at his side, Joe watched the sea roll endlessly forward.
One day, I'll leave this place, he thought calmly.
Not because I'm chased away.
But because I choose to move forward.
He smiled.
Until then—
Greyshore was home.
And the sea, for once, didn't feel like an enemy.