The sky had turned black long before night was meant to arrive.
Not the gentle black of dusk, not the quiet promise of sleep—but a heavy darkness, stretched wide as a veil pulled tight across the heavens. Rain fell without mercy. Not drops, but sheets, slashing the air and hammering the ocean below.
The sea answered in fury.
Waves rose and collapsed into one another, restless and violent, their crests breaking apart before they could settle. The ocean did not flow—it thrashed.
A ship struggled within it.
It was a large vessel, built for long journeys and heavy cargo, its hull scarred by years of travel.
Tonight, even its size meant nothing. Waves slammed against its sides, rocking the deck so hard the wood groaned beneath the strain.
At the helm stood a single man.
His boots slid across the wet planks as he fought to keep his balance. Both hands were locked around the wheel, fingers stiff, arms trembling as he forced it to turn. Each wave came faster than the last, crashing close enough to drown him if he slipped even once.
He did not look away.
Rain streamed down his face, stinging his eyes, blurring the world into shifting shadows. His long hair clung to his skin, heavy with water. He lifted one hand, wiped his face hard with his palm, and returned it to the wheel without hesitation.
The storm howled.
Then—suddenly—the waves stopped.
Not gently. Not naturally.
The ocean pulled back, as if something beneath it had commanded silence. The ship rocked once, twice, settling into an uneasy stillness.
The traveller felt it before he saw it.
He raised his head.
Far ahead, where the horizon should have been, something rose. Not a wave—not at first. It grew slowly, stretching upward, wider than the sea itself. Water climbed upon water, folding into a towering wall that swallowed the sky behind it.
It did not rush forward.
It advanced.
The traveller stared.
No path remained. No turn of the wheel could save him now. The ship might as well have been anchored to the sea floor.
His fingers tightened around the helm until pain shot through his hands. A sound tore from his chest—raw, hoarse, torn loose by fury rather than fear. He screamed into the wind, into the black sky above, as though accusing something unseen of betrayal.
Then the scream died.
He released the wheel.
Without another glance, he turned and descended below deck.
The cabin swallowed him in darkness. The storm's roar dulled, pressed down by thick wood and iron. He struck a match. The candle caught with a soft hiss, its flame trembling as it cast weak light across the room.
Shadows stretched and shifted.
He removed his coat, hung it carefully against the wall, and pulled out the chair at his desk. The ship groaned again, tilting slightly, but he sat anyway.
Time was thinning.
Stacks of paper covered the desk—maps, notes, records gathered across years of travel. He swept them aside with one motion. They fell to the floor, scattering uselessly.
Only one sheet remained.
He picked up his feathered pen. Ink pooled at the tip as his hand shook. The words came slowly at first, uneven, the letters bending as the ship lurched beneath him. His grip tightened. He continued writing.
Outside, thunder rolled. The wave drew closer.
He finished.
Carefully, he folded the paper. Beneath the table sat a large wooden box, empty and waiting. He opened it, placed the paper inside, and closed the lid. The lock clicked into place.
He stood up, poured himself a glass of grog, and lifted it once. His hand was steady now. He drank without hurry, savouring the burn as it settled in his chest.
Memories pressed in—faces, places, moments that had slipped away too quickly. Regret followed, quiet and heavy. His eyes burned, but he did not wipe them.
He had believed—once—that his life would matter. That even if it ended here, what he carried would not.
He stepped back onto the deck.
The wave loomed above him now, blotting out what little light remained. Wind screamed. The sea rose.
He closed his eyes.
The ship lifted sharply, dragged upward as if seized by something vast, then vanished. Wood splintered. Metal shrieked. Darkness rushed in, cold and endless.
The ship did not break apart at once.
For a brief, impossible moment, it hung there—tilted, groaning—caught between the pull of the sky and the hunger below. Water poured across the deck in sheets, filling every hollow, every crack.
The candlelight from below vanished, swallowed without a trace.
Then the sea took it.
Wood snapped under pressure that no craft was ever meant to endure. The mast twisted, tearing free with a sound like something being ripped from bone. Cold rushed in, heavy and absolute, crushing breath, thought, and sound into nothing.
The traveller never fought it.
The ship was dragged downward, spinning slowly as it descended, its shape dissolving into the dark. The ocean closed above it, sealing the wound as if it had never been opened.
Silence followed.
Far above, the storm began to lose its strength. The wind faltered first, its howl breaking into uneven breaths. Rain softened, then thinned, falling in scattered drops before stopping altogether.
Clouds loosened their hold on the sky.
Light returned—not warm, not forgiving—but steady. The ocean smoothed itself, waves shrinking into gentle swells that rolled across the surface without memory of what had happened beneath them.
Time passed.
From the depths, something moved.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, a chain drifted upward through the water.
It had been resting against his chest, looped around his neck, pulled downward with him as the sea claimed the ship. For a time, it remained there, caught between sinking weight and its own nature.
Then the currents began to work at it—gentle at first, then persistent—lifting it link by link.
The chain did not rise straight. It swayed, turned, slipped free, as though the ocean itself were loosening its grip. When it finally left him, it did so without force, carried away by the tides below, taken—not claimed.
Eventually, it broke the surface.
The metal glistened faintly in the sunlight, water streaming from each link as it floated free. The tide caught it and began to pull it along, carrying it farther and farther from where it had emerged.
Everything else stayed below.
The ship. The box. The truth.
They rested where the ocean had placed them.
Waiting