the sun & the sea

Murk darkens the shore, brown sediment clouding beneath the surface. It blooms with each wave against the docks—the disturbance of a spoon dragging through a bowl of miso soup. The grains expand and disperse, swirling with clumps of seaweed and driftwood and garbage. This water is cold and unforgiving, the result of a recent storm scraping at eroded mountains. Clouds linger above, a shield against the sun.

It’s not unusual for the water to take this form, especially in the summer when typhoon season sweeps in. The clusters of islands to the south of Japan usually take the damage—monsters of weather blazing through the Philippines or Taiwan, leaving pleasant stormclouds blowing towards Musutafu. Kaone, the most recent typhoon, was the largest the town experienced in years, managing to dodge Taiwan’s coast in a line straight for Japan, an angry and swirling tirade of rain.

Today, three days after the storm passed, everything is in order when the Urarakas take their Saturday trip to the harbor. Everything but the brown of the ocean, the angry waves that jostle the docks forcefully, the looming darkness of the sky.

The stench of the sea is strongest here, carried in through lines of boats, their wireframes and decks littered with buckets and bins of fish, some still writhing in captivity. The vessels are loud—painted bright colors with blaring horns to announce their arrival, crew members jumping out with ropes for mooring. A yellow ship docks close to where Ochako stands, hand in her father’s. Wide, brown eyes watch as a man leaps from the deck to secure the ship, then drift to the engine. Liquid spills from one of the tubes, coating the water beneath it in a pearlescent shimmer—the shine of an abalone.

Her father’s hand tightens, tugging her firmly. Ochako didn’t notice in her staring that she had walked forward, entranced. He doesn’t elaborate. She takes three steps back to his side.

She knows what he’s thinking—an incident from elementary school at the forefront of his mind. Ochako’s memory is hazy, a series of flashing feelings and images: stomach plummeting as her body tipped over the dock, the blunt force of the water when she broke through its surface. She remembers a warm and sunny day, but the ocean was cold, terrifying. Consuming. It stole her breath, only let her take shallow and stuttered inhales as she writhed in its grasp. 

(There was a glimmer of something beneath her, a faded gold smeared across her vision in the chaos of her flailing. Something alien, terrifying. Something pulling her deeper.)

She remembers the onlookers above her. They laid safe on the deck, anchored on their stomachs while reaching for her. But nobody would dare join her in the water.

Standing here years later, Ochako still doesn’t know what happened. The memory hasn’t faded with time, but it was never more than a fuzzy collection of images to begin with.

Her father worries that she’ll trip again, or stand too close to the edge. Ochako understands enough to know that falling was no fault of her own. She was pulled by something beneath the surface—something calling to her. She knows that if it were to happen again—if whatever song that lured her in the first time is sung again—her father’s hand won’t be enough to stop her.

Disappearances aren’t common in Musutafu, but they happen enough for locals and visitors to be aware of, to speculate. No one lost has been found, posters with names and contact information stapled over one another, faded on bulletin boards. Oftentimes they display the faces of children, kids the adults assume are lost to the ocean—to the monsters some believe lurk beneath the surface.

Ochako has heard the stories time and time again, words inscribed in the depths of her memory. Tales of writhing beasts in the water, ones that claw through the exterior of fishing boats, tear through nets, and wrench open metal traps. To steal the prey for themselves. To steal people.

But they only exist in stories. Ochako has never even seen a photo of the supposed monsters. There is no evidence of their reality. She has only the mental images of half human, half sea creature amalgamations. Her father says they’re ugly things, deformed and mangled and lesser than—akin to old depictions of ningyo in traditional paintings: twisted faces, bodies almost entirely fish, with bony arms and claws for hands.

They’re horrifying, enough to make adults shudder. But Ochako’s fear leans more towards curiosity. Fascination. When she opens her books and traces her fingers over scale patterns and wispy fins… She dares to think these creatures are beautiful.

She’s wondered before—what it would take to see one.

“Higa-san,” her father greets as the boat unloads.

The man stands at the edge of the dock, wide shoulders on sturdy legs. One of his crew passes wire boxes of fresh catch. He grips the handles tightly, slamming them against the wood with a thump. The fish inside are slender and grey with darker coloration at the top. They jostle from the movement. One wriggles above the others, still alive.

“Uraraka.”

Ochako’s hold on her father tightens, eyes trained on the fish. Its body inflates slightly, gills flaring desperately. Is it suffocating? She wonders. Is it in pain?

“The water treating you well?”

Higa grunts, heaving a large crate. Ochako recognizes the fish inside this one, the patterned edges of mackerel. None of them move. “Still not normal. ‘S murky out there, choppy. Full moon ain’t helpin’.” His slanted eyes move to Ochako, her own glued to the corpses before her.

What would happen if she set them free, if she tipped over that box and put them back into the water? Would they come back to life, righten like zombies, and swim home? Or would they float like buoys on a line, surrendered to their death.

“—grabbed our net today ‘n tore it. Had such a creepy grin, all teeth. A nasty thing. Was the first time one came s’close to the boat, figured we shoot ‘n haul it. But as soon as the spear hit, bloody thing turned to seafoam.”

Ochako blinks as she tunes back into the conversation.

Her dad makes a sound of surprise. “Seafoam?”

“Awful foam. Red as blood with a nasty stench. Miya was yackin’ for ten minutes at least.”

“You should report it to the Coast Guard,” Uraraka insists, knuckles white from gripping Ochako.

“You ‘Matonchu wouldn’t know what to do with the information,” Higa scoffs. “Would just give ya a reason to interfere with our fishin’. Like hell we’re tellin’em. ‘S a matter for the Musu.”

The Musu people were the dominant group of the Musutafu township for centuries, even long after the Yamato, or Yamatonchu—the people of mainland Japan—expanded to the east. They're recognizable by a difference in features: thick hair as straight as a blade, freckled skin, striking eyelashes. Higa is a descendant of the Musu, a member of one of the few remaining families on the island. 

His eyes narrow, irises darkening as they train on Uraraka’s face. A warning. “So ya better keep yer damn mouths shut.”

Ochako doesn't know much about the Musu, her knowledge limited to brief mentions in school. She knows they don't fear the sea the way Yamato do; instead honing understanding from years of navigating canoes on the open water, so skilled they could reach smaller islands off the coast. They had a relationship with animals that was lost over time: one built from reciprocity, responsibility. But it changed when the Yamato came. 

When she stares at Higa-san’s angry face, his stern voice ringing as a warning to stay out of his business, she wonders if the Musu ever dream of going back.

The rest of the outing is a blur. Strung along by her father’s hand, Ochako wades through rows of markets, eye level with piles of catch. She passes the glistening scales of mahi mahi, the slippery skin of eel, smooth shells of mussels that clack like stones rolling through a current. Her parents stop several times—at the most affordable stands—to purchase carefully weighed portions of seafood.

Their last stop is at a table filled with shellfish. The woman at the stall shovels handfuls of shrimp in a bag with dark fingers, each addition making a wet plop. She ties the crinkly bag before murmuring a warm thank you, passing it to Ochako’s mother while taking the bills and coins.

A boy sits on a stool behind the table. His eyes are wide and carefully watching the exchange, curtained by thick and dark bangs. When his mother turns to wave at the Urarakas, he swipes a raw shrimp off the table, the head held between his fingers while he bites the meat and legs and tail. Ochako watches with fascination—and disgust—as he chews quickly and swallows, shell and all. 

“Hanta!” the woman chides while Ochako’s father makes to exit. 

The boy laughs, mouth stretching into a grin plastered crookedly across his face. His eyes meet Ochako’s and his delight somehow grows further.

“That’s that boy I was telling you about yesterday,” Ochako’s father mutters, pulling her attention back to the faces of her parents.

“The Musu boy?” her mother asks. “Who’s always in the water at the southern beach?” 

He grunts in affirmation. “They’re crazy—all of them. Who lets a kid in that water? By himself?”

Ochako’s eyes return to the market table. The boy is still grinning on the stool, bare feet swinging while the woman—his mother, Ochako assumes—softly sweeps at his bangs with her fingers. She smiles fondly at her son.

Ochako thinks he looks loved.

Ochako is loved too, in a different sort of way. Her parents have a love that inspires protectiveness. They worry about her, for her.

“You’re precious to us,” her mother says, fingers caressing the plush of her cheek.

Ochako knows this. And she knows the message buried beneath those words: that she’s important but small, and too young to understand what her parents know. The adults make decisions for her that she’ll come to appreciate when she’s older.

But Ochako sees other types of love around her—love like that: a boy and his mom who gives him freedom and choice, and she wonders what sort of love is the best. Maybe certain types of love work for some people and not others. Maybe some people only know one way to love.

Maybe people only ever know the love they were given. 

Ochako considers this one the longest. She worries too—about her parents. The image of their faces twisted in a grimace, murmuring about the bills, is a reminder burned in her memory. They don’t discuss these things when Ochako is present, but the kitchen is halfway down the hall; she catches glimpses through the door and slivers of conversation on the way to the bathroom.

Her worry sits uncomfortably in her chest. During particularly restless nights it rises above the skin, a crushing weight.

It’s the kind of worry that makes her feel small, that makes her say I don’t want any, or I don’t need it. It’s the kind of worry that she can’t say aloud, because she’s not supposed to be aware of it in the first place. It’s the kind of worry that makes her parents worry back, because their sweet girl never wants anything. Never makes a fuss.

So Ochako listens to her parents. She heeds their warnings, even when curiosity stirs within her body, pulling her where she desperately wants to be but can’t go.

The only water she’s allowed to play in is the stream behind their home. It’s a conservative size, just deep enough to reach the bottom of her calves, and with a width barely greater than her wingspan. There’s hardly a bank, just clusters of grass that flatten into sparse river sand. The current is gentle and the forest is quiet, deemed safe enough for Ochako to explore alone—so long as she stays within the confines of the Uraraka property.

(Borders are an imaginary thing, a mental image of a gate or line drawn across the yard. Ochako doesn’t understand why people are the only beings restricted by them—the water and fish and birds don’t have any sense of these territories, instead guided by the divots in the ground, the wall of the shallow bank. 

But Ochako listens. She confines herself to the section of stream and forest her parents allow her, and she enjoys her time here, playing away from watchful eyes.)

Even in the darkness of the settling dusk, she kicks through the water on her own. Red rays of light skim the surface of the stream, kissing the skin of her legs. Her feet stomp quickly, chasing a frog on the bank. She inhales when her hands gently trap it, fingers cupped against the wet dirt. She lifts it carefully towards her face, wide brown blinking with delight. 

Her pointer finger lifts to press against the back of the amphibian, tracing slimy ridges of skin. A loud croak sounds from its throat, underbelly jerking with the vibrations, and Ochako makes a sound of surprise. Her hand jerks and the frog leaps directly for the water. 

It lands with a splash, ripples radiating in a disfigured circle. Another blooms when the frog hops downstream, concentric shapes overlapping. Ochako follows carefully, her footsteps another disturbance on the surface.

The frog pauses at the imaginary border: the edge of the stream before it crosses the neighbor's land. Ochako halts. The amphibian croaks again, an overtone song that smothers the buzz of insects. The girl giggles softly at the sound, eyes narrowing as she prepares to catch it once more. Her hands open carefully before they dart forwards. She huffs in disappointment when they cut through water, missing the frog as its legs stretch to launch through the gap between her palms.

Her eyes lift to watch its escape, bounding and croaking down the stream. Her breath catches in her throat.

A trail of lights flicker on the surface.

Ochako cranes her neck to peer at the trees. Littered along the lower branches is a line of fireflies. Their dancing light trails through the woods, bobbing gently upstream. It’s too weak to illuminate the forest, but the blinks of gold marble along the water.

Ochako steps forward without thinking.

Her steps sparkle when she crosses the border—that arbitrary boundary. The rapid shuffling of her feet comes to life, illuminated swirls of ripples. She breaks into a run, frog forgotten as she now chases the light.

Her foot catches on something sharp. She falls with a yelp, arms stretched to catch herself as she lands against a pile of rough stones. The result is painful: scraped skin and a litter of future bruises. Standing is a challenge, arms shakily hoisting her body, knees wobbling as she shifts her weight to her feet.

She stands in darkness. 

Ochako sighs, staring along the water as if conjuring the light to return. It doesn’t, the only glow is now the house at her backside. Her arms pebble from the cold, drenched clothes clinging to her skin. The aches of her fall start to register. She trudges back home.

Her mother tucks her into bed, leaning over her small frame to press a kiss on her forehead.

“I love you.” Her voice is quiet, face half illuminated by the bedside lamp.

Ochako’s response is a ritual, a whisper of, “I love you too.”

(What does it mean to love someone because you’re supposed to, Ochako wonders. How do you distinguish love from attachment, from comfort and familiarity and habit? 

Are those things even considered love?)

Ochako thinks her mother would be sad if she said these thoughts aloud. A crease would form along her forehead, familiar wrinkles of confusion and worry. Maybe even hurt.

Instead, in Ochako’s silence, her mother wears the slope of a smile. She reaches to tuck loose hair behind the girl’s ear, and then to turn off the lamp. Darkness envelops the room, her mother now nothing more than a dark figure.

When she exits and Ochako is left by herself, she hurries to toss off the covers that were so neatly arranged over her body. She sits on her knees and turns towards the window.

The stream is visible, a small dip in the ground that sits in the transition from yard to forest. Dim moonlight flickers atop the water, but that’s all.

The following weekend, she sees the Musu boy again. This time while his mother efficiently manages the market stand, he sits on a low stool, a bag of peanuts open on his lap as he talks excitedly with another kid. They both have a thin braided band around their ankle, one yellow and the other red. Even in earshot, Ochako has no idea what they’re saying—or at least, what the black haired one is saying. The other sits quietly, nodding along.

The former beams when his eyes catch Ochako. His grin engulfs his entire face and he stands, grabbing the bag of peanuts and stretching his arm out. He says something loudly, but Ochako doesn’t understand.

The woman behind the table interjects with more unfamiliar sounds. It’s a musical speech, one that dips low at times, rolling like the tide. The boy's eyes flicker with clarity, turning back with the same grin.

“Have some!” he says this time.

She nods and grabs a fistful in her small fingers. They’re good—gently roasted with a touch of salt, the sweetness of the sea. She smiles.

“I’m Hanta!” he continues, wide eyes watching her eat. He points to his friend. “And that’s Koji.”

Hanta. Koji. Their names ring with song. She tries to repeat them but they fall flat in her voice. She doesn’t know how to make their sounds.

“I’m Uraraka,” she replies.

They eat their peanuts together quietly, scooping handfuls into chubby cheeks. It’s mostly quiet, with Hanta swinging his legs and grinning, asking questions like, “Do you like shrimp?”

Ochako nods to most of them.

The other boy—Koji—sits quietly, never saying a word. But he watches, eyes trailing between Ochako and Hanta as they talk. His gaze falls when she looks his way. She notices his long and dark eyelashes.

Ochako wants to ask her own questions. About the Musu people—who they are, what that even means. She wants to ask about Higa-san, if they know anything about the sea monsters. She wants to know how this boy has gone into the water by himself and come out alive.

She wonders if he knows anything about the fireflies.

A tug leads her away before she’s ready. She whips her head towards her mother, free hand still cupping a sprinkling of peanuts, face twisted in an uncontrollable plea. Ochako doesn’t want to leave.

Her mother pauses, eyes softening with a guilty smile. “We need to go,” she says gently.

Ochako’s eyes fall in disappointment, then lift to Hanta and Koji. The former smiles brightly and waves. He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“See you!” He cheers. Koji timidly waves beside him.

She pouts the entire walk home, but neither of her parents notice. Instead they talk in soft voices, murmurs of words like budgeting and expenses. Normally Ochako would listen carefully, matching their worried expressions, but now an ugly part of her thinks it’s fair, that they’re all unhappy together.

The disappointment doesn’t leave with time. Instead it grows, festers like a mold that sits heavy in her chest. There’s a heat in her cheeks, a tightness in her stomach. Does she have to wait until next week to see them again? Will it be for the same amount of time?

She heads straight to her room, sparing no parting words. Her parents don’t mention it, voices drifting to the kitchen where they continue to talk in increasing volume. Ochako huffs, kneeling on her futon, hands grasping the duvet in tight fists. Her teeth are clenched as she swallows back tears. Part of her wants to stomp back to the kitchen while sobbing, loud noises that can’t be ignored. The other knows that her parents wouldn’t like it, that she’d regret it later.

Abruptly she stands, turning to reenter the hall. The voices carry through the house, louder without the door as a guard. Ochako takes softs steps to the kitchen, listening as she approaches.

“—think moving is going to give us the most opportunities,” her mother murmurs. “It’s becoming more expensive than the mainland.”

Her father grunts. “It would take months to get out of our contracts. Besides, there’s no guarantee we’ll find similar positions.”

“We could stay in Mie. My parents would happily host us until one of us secures a job.”

“And give Ochako that kind of instability? She’s still so young.”

“You think it’s worse than living here?”

The air is still as several moments pass. Ochako tries to imagine the faces they’re making, her mother’s pinched brow, her father’s pursed lips. She wants to crane her neck to look through the doorway. She wants to know why they said her name.

Footsteps sound, her parents shuffling. Ochako panics, starting swiftly and quietly to her room. Her heart gallops as she closes the door and stands behind it, taking ragged inhales. When her breathing calms, her chest is still tight with something unsettling. Her parents' voices start again, muted sounds behind the wall.

She exits into the hall again, this time jostling the handle and deliberately thumping her feet across the floor. Her parents’ conversation halts. They watch expectantly when she enters the dining room. She doesn’t say anything.

“Ocha-chan?” her mother probes.

The girl’s heart is uneasy. Her body is still swirling with disappointment, with now additional curiosity.

“Can I play outside?” Her voice is small.

Her mother smiles, shoulders relaxing. She glances at Ochako’s father with an expression the girl doesn’t understand. He nods curtly and she answers, “Okay honey. Just remember to stay inside the yard.”

Ochako bobs her head, eyes averting to the floor. Something else gnaws at her chest, not a tightness this time but a sting. She scurries to the genkan, hastily strapping on her shoes before heading out the door. When she reaches the creek and turns around, her mom waves from the window. The sting eases.

The water is cold against her skin, rushing along her sandals as she steps into the stream. It runs to her calves, washing away the itchiness from stalking through the grass.

There are no fireflies.

She pouts, standing and craning her head to the sky. It’s a royal blue, deep while bright, the quilt of late afternoon. Streams of fluff slice through the fabric, clouds stitching the atmosphere together.

When she brings her head back down, turning to the window, her parents are gone. Her pout pulls into a scowl.

She runs.

It starts with jagged steps, tripping through the water before she returns to the bank, and bolts along the stream. Her heart pounds in her chest when she crosses the boundary into her neighbor’s yard, and then the next neighbor, then the third one. She doesn’t look back, eyes trained forwards as the water curves into the forest, turning perpendicular to the neat line of houses. 

The ground is forgiving despite her sandals. She runs with ease, next to the rushing water. It stops shortly, disappearing just before an incline. The trees thin out as she climbs the hill and stands at the crest, overlooking a sunny break of canopy. The light streams along a wide river, a plane of green and brown. Its body snakes in a lazy curve, a weak pulse pumping the current.

Ochako’s side of the river has a gentler slope, transitioning from water to land via a sea of pebbles. They’re bright white, bleached under the sun. As she inches down the hill and towards the bank, she notices that they’re smooth ovals, sprinkled with occasional sharp stones—like fragments of coral or bone. A few large stones sit in the water, ripples wrinkling around them.

She has never been here, hardly knew there was a river so close to home. It’s a quaint stretch of land… a secret. Warm with bright light but also shrouds of trees, the sun dappling through. The hum of water strolling downstream. The call of birds she has never heard.

Her heart slows, steadying as she takes in the serenity. Ochako wishes she could play here, where it’s calm and wide and with more to explore. Her parents might let her, since it’s a river: a pretty river with stones and soft grass. A river that—

That smells rancid.

The scent is an ambush, flooding her nose with a horrible kind of sweetness. A fishy sourness that springs tears in her eyes. Her stomach turns, face twisting further with each shallow breath.

A morbid curiosity takes over. Ochako turns her head towards the source, reluctantly breathing in. She takes a hesitant step downstream, stones rolling as she walks. The pungency strengthens.

She freezes after passing a clump of driftwood, wide eyes locking on a figure behind it.

It’s long and motionless and clearly the source of the smell. Despite the dread pooling in Ochako’s stomach, a heaviness and nausea, she walks closer. She wants to see.

An animal, a sea creature with slippery skin. It has a bulbous head and a long mouth—a dolphin. A beady eye stares straight into the sky. Ochako can see her own reflection in its blackness.

Two small holes puncture the animal’s body, smeared faintly in red. Crusted blood lines the openings. Along its stomach are gashes. Not long, but deep, like claws were stabbed violently through the flesh. Similarly, there are no blood stains, only faint dried clots and light smears.

Ochako gawks openly, completely frozen. Her heart continues to drum, to thump, thump, thump between her ribs. She struggles to inhale, throat and chest tightening.

It’s… it’s terrifying, naturally. A large creature, longer than Ochako’s own body, splayed out along the bank, sucked dry by some other animal she can’t imagine. But as dreadful as the sight is, she’s filled with an inexplicable wonder, that persistent curiosity. Pure awe at encountering something this rare, this impossible. The still-fresh skin is grey, a storm stretched taught along muscle and flesh. It fades to yellow at the edges of the fins and mouth, aged like paper. Ochako feels the urge to reach for it, to run a finger along the slippery surface.

The body suddenly twitches. Ochako’s heart drops, body leaping to take two steps back.

Its mouth parts, revealing the pink of its tongue. “Hnngh,” it moans.

Ochako yelps, body moving on instinct as she turns to sprint away. Panic floods her veins, icy, as her mind flashes with images of the creature somehow chasing after her. She doesn’t look back, head jerking to find the spring and follow it home, fueled by fear.

The journey is longer than she remembers. Low branches swipe across her shoulders, twigs grasping her clothes like hands. Her father’s worries race through her head, pictures of something ugly and unfathomable sinking teeth in her neck and leaving her drained on the shore. His warnings thump through her head, spinning on repeat.

Stay away from the water Ochako. 

Relief floods her system as she catches sight of the neighbor’s home. She’s close, so close. Only a minute later and she’ll be safe. Safe in the stream, safe in her backyard. Safe with her parents. She wants to cry in their arms and hear their soothing voices, their gentle hands cradling her hair and cheeks. 

When she crosses the final imaginary border, relief swells so heavily in her stomach that she halts. She heaves, lungs burning as she sucks in air. Mud and scratches splatter her legs, stinging. Her eyes burn as they fill with tears.

Her parents are right: she should listen to them, to keep herself safe. This worry they have, these limitations and rules, are to protect her, because they love her. Ochako’s heart hurts. Guilt claws at her stomach. 

When her breath settles she anxiously turns to the house, ready to run inside.

Her parents are still out of sight.

The guilt in her gut hardens into something she’s never felt before. Something heavy, and dreadful.

The week is hard for Ochako.

Confusing feelings swirl inside her—a typhoon of feelings that scare her, make her want to do things she knows are wrong. She doesn’t understand what she saw, what her parents are whispering about, why she’s too young to know.

(Will she ever get to know?)

Nobody is safe enough for her to share these questions. Instead she sits quietly with this storm inside her chest, raging winds and murky water pounding against the cage of her flesh. If it’s lucky it will find its way to the surface of her skin, emptying itself through her lashes. She doesn’t notice when this happens.

Her parents do. They catch the faraway look in her eyes, her subdued attitude, a lack of focus. They worry, brows furrowed when they ask if she’s okay. Their expressions make her stomach turn—do they know she disobeyed them? 

“Ochako, do you want to go to the mochi stand tonight?” her father probes. His voice is soft.

She recalls hushed voices in the kitchen, discussing work and money. She frowns and says, “No,” in a quiet voice.

Her mother’s face falls. Ochako feels worse.

When the weekend returns and her dad asks if they’re ready to go to the market, her mother offers to stay home with Ochako. 

The girl shakes her head, mumbling, “I want to go.” 

The adults trade glances, confused by her attitude. Her mother watches her daughter’s face carefully. 

“Are you sure?” she asks.

Ochako nods quickly, and that’s enough to convince them. 

She walks through the markets with a hand in her mother’s. Her eyes skim along the lines eagerly, brightening when they land on Hanta and Koji. They sit on the same stools as the previous weekend. She waves when they notice her.

Her mom tugs her arm. She started towards them without realizing it.

“C’mon Ocha-chan.”

Her round face lifts, eyes widening in a plea to stay. Her mother’s breath hitches, chest freezing in apprehension. She looks nervously to the table, the boys sitting on their stools as the older woman bags orders of fish.

Another second passes. Ochako lowers her gaze, turning to follow where her father walks ahead.

Her mother folds. “We can go say hi,” she offers.

Ochako beams, eyes sparkling. She misses her mother’s flicker of guilt as she turns and barrels ahead.

“Hi,” she says, breathless, when she stands before Hanta’s grin and Koji’s reserved interest.

“Hi!” the former replies. He stretches his arm to offer a bag of sunflower seeds.

Ochako’s mother releases her, letting the girl take a handful and work them open with her teeth. The shells splinter easily, falling into her palm to be discarded in a bag by Koji’s feet. Ochako relishes the nutty flavor, audibly humming. Her mother smiles.

She likes this table, the company of Hanta and Koji. They’re kind and carefree. Hanta does all the talking, but Koji nods along, occasionally making hand gestures that Hanta translates with words. She giggles at one of his jokes and turns to her mother to see if she caught it too, then pauses when she sees her talking to the woman behind the table.

“That’s my mom,” Hanta says plainly. “Your mom is nice.”

Ochako nods immediately. “I love my mom.”

Her eyes avert to the ground as soon as she says it, brain pausing. Not in apprehension or uncertainty, but in question. Why do they love each other?

“Me too,” Hanta responds. He chews the seed shells and swallows them. “I love lots of things.”

Ochako straightens. “You do?”

He nods, humming in affirmation.

“How do you know?”

“I just do,” he asserts. His eyes lift in thought. “Ma says we have love for everything inside us.”

Ochako stares at him with bewilderment. “Really?”

“Mhm. Everything comes from love, so we love everything. She says when we do things for love, that’s when the best things happen. Like the fireflies.”

Ochako’s breath halts. “The fireflies?”

Hanta grins. “You haven’t heard?”

Ochako shakes her head. She wants to say she has only seen them, but the words catch in her throat.

“A very long time ago one of our oldest grammas was in love. But granpa had to go away, and they were both very sad. He left on a boat by the river next to their home, so gramma waited every night for him with a torch to help him find his way home. The people and animals called her the ‘Lady of Fire’.

“She stood there every night with her torch, finding ways to keep it burning even in heavy rain—until there was a typhoon. But even when the wind and rain blew it out, gramma stood there waiting. She cried and cried, only wishing for granpa to come home safe. Her love was so inspiring that the moon herself came down to light the way. She turned into a million twinkling bugs that could fly in the rain. Granpa came home that very night.”

Ochako’s mouth hangs ajar as she listens, eyes full moons. She’s never heard such a beautiful story.

“That’s where fireflies come from,” he reminds her.

“Wow,” she breathes.

Hanta nods, grinning. “Yup. And Koji can talk to them!”

The smaller boy jolts at the mention of his name, but he doesn’t make any gesture of disagreement.

“Really?” Ochako asks in amazement.

“Mhmm! People from old gramma’s family can do things like that when they love.”

Something in Ochako’s chest expands at his words, like it’s grown. Then it clenches in envy. Urgency.

“Is that something I can do too?” she asks.

“Ma says anyone can do it,” he answers. He parts his lips to speak, but no words escape. They pull into a frown and Ochako thinks the expression is out of place. “… You can lose it too, like Higa-san.”

The brunette blinks in surprise. “Higa-san? He lost it?” 

Hanta’s wide eyes dart to his mother, then to Ochako. She is captivated, clinging onto every word.

“His love.”

“Oh.” Ochako frowns. She thought he would say more.

“Yeah,” he answers with a shrug, swinging his feet.

Ochako wants to probe but she doesn’t know how to navigate thoughts like these. Where does she start? What sort of question makes sense for this?

“What did he love?” she tries.

Hanta frowns again. 

“The ocean,” he says flatly, as if it’s the only thing worth loving.

Ochako doesn’t understand. She knows love as a feeling for people: for family members and marriage and maybe a cat. Even so, love isn’t openly shared, instead kept for private conversations and the gaps in speech. How can you love something so big, so vast, so… inanimate?

So terrifying.

“Ocha-chan.”

She blinks, turning to her mother’s voice.

“We should go now.” It’s a command disguised as a suggestion. “But we can come back next time, okay?”

Ochako turns to Hanta, questions brimming at the base of her throat. She wants to know what it means to love the ocean, how Hanta knows that Higa-san lost his love, how he knows that the man had it in the first place.

She wants to ask Hanta and Koji what their love feels like.

Her mother’s hand slips into her own. It’s warm, and Ochako grasps it on instinct.

“Next time,” she repeats.

Ochako nods, mindlessly shoving the remaining seeds in the pocket of her jacket as they turn away. When they walk along the dock and her dad raises a hand to Higa unloading his boat, something stirs beneath the surface of Ochako’s subconscious.

Her parents watch her wander through the stream under the falling sun. They sit by the window absorbed in conversation, but focused enough to occasionally glance her way. Ochako finds it burdensome. Part of her wishes they would leave again.

She busies herself with her bucket and net, grinning triumphantly when she catches a minnow. It circles the bottom of the net, darting within its cage. Ochako giggles as she lifts the mesh, minnow flopping in the air. Her chubby hand traps it and she laughs again at its slippery skin. It writhes in her grasp, along the tunnel of her palm.

Brown eyes peer through the opening. Its small head comes closer, inching towards her thumb. Without warning it slips through her hold and leaps into the air. The girl shrieks and lifts her opposite arm to catch it in the bucket.

The fish lands with a plop, splatting against the empty bottom. Plop, plop, plop follows as it thrashes against the plastic. Until it stops.

Ochako’s smile falters as she stares at the creature. Its tiny body is motionless. Stripes of silver and green shimmer in the light. Its eye is a black bead, small but swallowing her whole. 

The dolphin flashes through her mind, and she moves quickly, dipping the rim of the bucket under the water for a second before raising it. She stares into the shallowness, holding her breath.

The minnow twitches, jolting to life, and Ochako exhales.

She pours the water back into the stream, watching closely as the fish darts upstream to the bank. A mix of guilt and relief sits inside her chest.

“Ochako,” her father calls behind her.

She turns to see him standing half outside the door. He waves.

“Dinner’s ready.”

The girl nods, understanding the order. She gives the bucket a final shake and walks up the bank. Red seeps into the sky from the horizon, dusk creeping in. When she finally reaches the door she steals one final look at the water. A white heron swoops in, standing in the shallows. It steps slowly, then jerks forward to thrash its beak into the stream.

A faint flicker of yellow bobs above it.

They have tuna for dinner, sashimi on rice with pickled plums and stringy cucumber. Ochako eats slowly, letting the softness of the meat melt over her tongue. She wonders what the fish looked like when it died, if it thrashed in a bucket.

“Ocha-chan,” her mother interrupts her thoughts. She speaks gently. “What do you think about going to Mie soon, to see baachan and jiisan?”

The girl looks up to her parents’ faces. They’re uncertain, almost nervous.

“Okay,” she answers easily. Her mother relaxes until she adds, “For how long?”

The adults trade glances. Ochako is not given an answer.

When night falls and Ochako is tucked into the covers, she is restless. 

The water calls for her, floods her ears with the ghost of its song. Her mind is powerless to her body, watching as she rises from her futon and makes for the bedroom door. The house is silent, her parents in slumber. She shuffles to the genkan without a sound.

The night is alive, loud as despite its darkness. Humidity thickens the air and buzzes with the call of insects. A dense cluster of yellow twinkle above the stream, and Ochako’s breath catches.

Fireflies.

They breathe along the water, one entity dancing through the branches. Their trails smear behind them, illuminated strokes of a pen. They are the only light littering through the woods, miniature lanterns tracing the stream back to its source. 

Ochako follows obediently, walking the trail of water through the neighbors’ territories, through the thick wooded land and up the hill to the river. Her heart is steady, mind too concentrated to let unease seep through her skin. In an instant she is at the top of the hill, stepping down towards the bank. The fireflies thin as she nears the water. They flicker for a moment more, then fade away just as the moon breaks over the trees. The river stones bathe in its gaze, bands of brilliant white creeping along their surfaces. 

The night is quiet here. Ochako’s never stood in such darkness alone, never even considered it. She thinks she should be scared, filled with jitters to run, to get away and get safe as fast as she can. Instead she’s calm, at peace. The night has a special sort of serenity.

Or it would, if it weren’t for the stench of death.

It’s the same smell from last time, sourness that pulls her attention to the carcass on the shore. There the same dolphin rests, tipped on its side and properly rotting. The flesh is a patchwork of black and grey, body half decayed to reveal the skeleton beneath. A spine rests in the center, attached to an unbroken cage of ribs. The skull is partially visible, skin peeled from its mouth. Even in the darkness, the bones shine like pearls, like the stones along this shore, bleached from time in the sun.

It almost looks human, Ochako muses, with shorter arms and a misshapen head.

Human, with a tail.

She thinks of Koji, his ability to speak to animals. Would he have understood that last dying breath she witnessed? Would he be able to talk with it now, with its body half gone and more bone than flesh.

Ochako wishes she had such a gift, something to connect her to the world she inhabits, to make life clearer. To make it her’s.

A splash erupts from the river.

She turns, heart racing. The water ripples, waves echoing from the cluster of jagged rocks. The wrinkles gather moonlight in a woven pattern, scaly slithering skin. Something is lurking, dragging its body through the shallows.

A limb appears, breaking through the surface. It’s scrawny and withered with a misfigured hand attached to the end, sharp claws hooking into the divots of the rock. It tenses, weary muscles twitching to heave itself upwards. Another gurgled sound passes as it fails to lift itself. Ochako steps away from the bank carefully, wide eyes trained on the creature’s arm.

Her heart leaps when it rises above the rock, a face coming into view before it slumps over, grunts and wheezes shuddering through the air. Strangled sounds.

The rest of its body is as withered as its arm, flesh tight to the bone—

Human bones, Ochako thinks. Human mixed with the remains of the dolphin beside her.

It has a human face, at least, but its body is akin to a ningyo. Sharp fins creep out the side of its head, darkness pooling at the edges. It has something like hair, something matted and mangled with tufts of feathers slicing through the scalp, jutting out as if placed by force. The torso is gaunt, skin tight against a hollow stomach and quilted with the skin of other creatures: more feathers, slippery dolphin skin, the hard shell of shrimp. They’re scattered along the body, dipping down the length of a withered tail. 

Despite the fear shooting through Ochako’s veins, pure ice frosting her blood, she can’t move or look away. She is enchanted by this creature, drawn to its angles and curves, the slices of fins that sprout from its arms and tail, matching the webbing between its fingers. It’s mangy; it’s starved. 

It’s something she never knew existed.

“It’s hideous,” her father would shudder.

In one hand—one claw—is the squelching body of an octopus. It splats against the rock, tentacles lolling into the water as the body slides between hasty fingers. Under the moonlight, the faintest tint of red is visible.

The ningyo lowers to its prey, lips parting to bare pointed teeth. They lurch forward, sink into rubbery flesh, hands clenched so tight that fingernails pierce through the cephalopod. Dark liquid dribbles down: blood, a blue hue, splattering on the rock. The skin immediately loses color.

This is a hunger Ochako does not know. Every movement strikes a tremor through the ningyo’s body, hands shaking as they struggle to hold their meal. Its face, almost human (almost girlish), is smeared with fluids, a long tongue lapping the excess. A twisted face, sharp and angled and boney.

An honest face, a lively face that Ochako can read. When claws sink into the octopus for a second time, tearing open its body to drain every drop of fluid, the creature’s eyes soften. Jerking movements smooth, now reduced to lazy mawing. Its mouth curves into a crescent moon—a grin—and Ochako is captivated, paralyzed by fascination and fear. It looks happy, almost euphoric. Ochako has never seen such a pure expression of joy.

When the ningyo finishes it drops the scraps of its meal in the water. A slithering tongue laps over its hands and arms, boney things splattered with scales. In the unreliable light of the moon it almost looks like its forearms are darkening, the underside spotted with growing suckers.

Ochako has no choice. Her feet carry her forwards without permission or warning. In an instant she is ankle deep in the water, wide eyed under the spotlight of the moon.

Her steps splash loudly. The ningyo snarls, twisting its face into a glare before jerking its body off the rock and into the water. A tail breaks through the surface, glinting before thrashing downwards, splattering Ochako with a quick pelt of rain. In the next moment, the water calms and the girl is once again alone on the shore. Alone except for the skeleton laying behind her.

Standing in the water, in occupied water, Ochako is no longer cold with fear. There is no warning repeatedly blaring stay away, stay away, stay away. She is still and quiet, frozen except for the one thing she can process:Whatever this creature is, it’s beautiful.

No fireflies blink along the stream the following day.

Ochako stands in the water, chest vibrating with an urgency she’s never felt before. Despite the lack of light, she trudges forwards to the river. When she arrives she is left only in the company of the rotting dolphin.

She yearns for another glimpse. Somewhere in these strange sights and terrifying encounters lay answers. Answers about living, about love. They’re at the edges of her fingertips but still too far away, an insect flying just out of reach.

The fireflies don’t glow for two more days. The following night they return, but fade moments later. Still, the girl slips from her bedroom to the genkan, and then up the stream. Five days pass like this, with each visit the dolphin fading further to bones.

The next night she leaps the instant her parents quiet, pacing down the hall and past the kitchen. She stands at the entrance of the genkan, peering out the window of the door to the stream. It’s dark, her eyes needing time to adjust before the forms of the trees become visible.

“Ocha-chan?” 

The girl jumps, body tense with caught, caught, caught as she faces her mother.

“What are you doing here?”

She doesn’t know what to say. Even though this is her mother, something in her stomach yells that she can’t be trusted. If she speaks honestly she will be scolded, or worse banned from playing outside altogether. If she is dishonest, she will have to carry the weight of her guilt, of deceiving someone she loves—of someone who loves her.

Silence, she quickly learns, is another poor choice. Silence makes room for suspicion. It grows in her mother’s eyes with each passing second.

“I was looking outside.” It’s the best answer she can conjure.

“Oh,” her mother says plainly. Ochako can’t read the tone of her voice. “Do you want to play in the stream? It’s late.”

Ochako shakes her head honestly. She doesn’t want to play.

“Did you see something?” her mother tries again.

The girl nods. It is also honest, but delayed. Does it hurt her mother to keep secrets like this? Her parents do the same, having hushed conversations that Ochako never hears about, discussions with her name spoken softly, secretly.

“What did you see?”

Ochako’s chest flares with something prickly and tight. She doesn’t want to answer.

“I don’t know,” she answers, and that’s the end of it. She returns to her room.

The next day when night settles in, she can hear her parents murmuring in the kitchen when they would normally be in their room. Ochako, for the second night in a row, is forced to stay inside. She sits under her covers, staring out the window towards the stream.

The fireflies dance again.

Excitement vibrates through her veins when the family leaves for the docks, Ochako teeming with questions she wants to ask Hanta. But her dad’s grip on her is tight while her mother exchanges bills and coins for today’s purchase—a bag of crab legs, long and orange with spikes stretching the plastic.

“Ocha-chan, we don’t have time to stop today.”

Disappointment floods the girl and her instinct is to pout. Why didn’t they say anything ahead of time? Why tell her now, when they know her sparse conversations are the best part of these trips?

Her dad furrows his brow. “Do you need to tell them something?”

She turns to the boys perched on their stools. Hanta is watching curiously, eyes wide as ever, searching her face and what lies beyond it. Those questions she wants to ask, but questions that can only be shared in confidence: Do you know what I saw? Is it the same thing Higa sees, what everyone else is so afraid of?

Hanta follows her example, silent as he holds her gaze. Something in his expression shifts, something subtle, like the glint in his eyes.

Will she come back?

Koji clutches his friend, a hand to the wrist. Hanta’s head twitches, offering the tiniest nod. Ochako inhales, brightening.

The stream is calm, capturing Ochako’s gaze through dinner as the yellow blinking of fireflies settle along the bank. Her parents tuck away in their bedroom when it’s time for bed, and finally she can run along the water, through the forest, up the hill to the steady river.

The moon isn’t present except for the bugs holding the remnants of its light. Ochako’s eyes adapt, allowing her to trace the silhouettes of the river bank, the skeleton, the large stones in the water. 

The creature strewn atop them. Feasting.

Ochako’s heart pounds as she watches sharp teeth sink into a fish, the wet smacks of its tail sounding against the stone. The predator growls, almost a high pitched hiss. Ochako steps forward unconsciously.

This time when their eyes lock, neither are shocked. The ningyo halts, eyes darkening. Fins flicker, glinting under nonexistent light. Ochako holds her breath. She can feel her blood pulsing through her skin, pounding against her ears.

The creature lowers its head to resume its meal, but its gaze never falls. When it finishes and drops the corpse into the water, it cleans itself, tongue tracing every smeared remnant of blood. Ochako takes one step forward, fascinated.

The ningyo hisses before disappearing into the water once again.

Days pass. Ochako slips away every night dutifully, wanting to catch another glimpse. She wonders if she visits often enough, just to watch it feed, will these moments eventually add to an entire conversation? Could fragments of standing at a distance in careful observation lead to flickers of understanding—could she learn to distinguish its sounds and motions, grow to know what each one means?

But she wants more than distance. She wants to take one step and then another until her skin is pressed against the ningyo. She wants to run her hands over scales and fins and the slivers of other beasts nestled into the skin. She wants to hold the creature’s face close and stare into its eyes. She wants to whisper questions between them: to ask what inspires it to make such complicated faces, faces that look like love while draining a life of everything it had.

If Ochako steps forward she will instead witness the twist of a horrible glare, a growl, and loneliness for the remainder of her night.

“Hanta,” she says firmly, though breathless. She rushed through the markets to reach him, her parents bobbing through the other tables as they make their way over. “How—how do I get closer to the water?”

He blinks and looks at Koji. The latter averts his eyes.

“I want it to trust me. How…”

Hanta hums, turning his gaze to her again. “You have to give.”

“Give?”

“Mhm. Every time you take from the water, you ask for permission and offer something in return.”

Ochako frowns. “What do I give?”

“Depends,” the boy answers plainly. “I sing before each dive and I leave flowers where I catch mussels. Stuff like that. Koji braids the grass.”

Ochako wonders what she has to give. Her eyes fall to the bins of shrimp and oyster, the piles of sleek fish shimmering on the table. But the ningyo only takes blood, and Ochako is not sure if it will eat prey from the Uraraka refrigerator. Maybe she can catch a frog—though the thought makes her stomach queasy. A flower is easier to start with.

Koji nudges his friend with an elbow, glossy eyes dancing as if to communicate on their own. Hanta gasps, a grin spreading across his face as he digs into his pocket.

“Oh yeah! Here.” He stretches out his arm, his fist clenched.

Ochako raises her palm to receive the gift. It’s a soft and small bundle of thread. When Hanta’s arm retreats, she sees a band of braids. The width is the same as the anklets the boys wear, only the string is a deep pink.

“You’ll be safer with that in the water, especially with a Kono. We can make a different color if you don’t like pink.”

“Kono?” The girl holds the bracelet carefully. “I like pink.”

Hanta’s grin grows. “Perfect. Put it on your right leg, ‘kay?”

Ochako nods dutifully. A promise.

The fireflies do not shine for several days.

When they finally light again, sparks flickering in the trees, Ochako leaps with excitement. A feeling deep within her says that this time will be different, somehow. The touch of her anklet is barely noticeable as she hurries along the creek, whispering thanks to the miniature lanterns for lighting her way.

When she arrives, the ningyo is not present.

The girl frowns, turning to the woods where the fireflies still bob. She inches towards the water to get a look, stones shifting with each step. Maybe they just missed one another. She sighs.

The river is cold against her skin when she dips her feet into the shallows. A shudder rattles up her body, raising the hair along her arms. Only the thrum of bugs carry through the night. Ochako’s stomach sinks in disappointment. Maybe the creature could sense she did not find anything to give.

Something lurches from the water.

It’s just in front of Ochako, a roaring splash against one of the larger stones. A tail whips through the river while spindly arms grip and heave. Droplets scatter through the air, pelting Ochako in a moment of rain. Her chest blossoms with hope.

The feeling tightens when she is met with hissing and growling, voice holding the coarseness of a thunderstorm. A voice of thirst and a voice of fear.

Back away, Ochako can hear it scream. Your kind are not meant to come this close.

She swallows the onslaught of tears that threaten to spill, stinging her nose with something close to shame. Why is she always forbidden from the places she wants to be? Would she be welcomed if she had something to give? But what does she have to offer? Her eyes dart along the creature—the marred face of a bird protruding from its shoulder, amphibious legs twisted within its skin. She thinks of Hanta and his eagerness to share, whether he is offering snacks or jewelry or knowledge. He gives what he has, whatever Ochako might want.

She moves without thinking. With empty hands, she stretches out her arm.

The beast reacts with a flinch and a hiss, backing away as if threatened. Then it pauses, fins flickering while its eyes dart skeptically.

Ochako nods. She takes one step forward and rolls the sleeve of her nightshirt. Her chest and stomach ache with nerves but she does not move. 

A growl erupts from the belly of the creature while it bares its teeth. Ochako’s breath hitches as it lurches forward, moving erratically to latch a claw onto her arm. It stings, but brown eyes don’t waver from the ningyo’s glare. The air stills, as if the insects are holding their breath in anticipation.

This is all I have. The words are buried at the base of Ochako’s throat.

Gentleness is not what she would have expected, but when the creature leans forward, the first thing Ochako feels is the featherlight touch of lips against her skin. They’re soft, ghostly, careful. Until they curl back to unleash sharp fangs. The pinch against her forearm is painful when they puncture the skin. Blood begins to trickle—only for a moment before soft lips return. The slippery wetness of a tongue laps along the trail, saliva like a balm that turns the pain to a buzz.

A thrill runs through Ochako as the ningyo drinks from her. Part of it comes from the novelty and the risk—this adrenaline of disobeying, doing that she wants. But the other part is something much deeper, something inexplicable. Watching the creature’s face soften as it eats, sucking at the life running through Ochako’s arms, blooms a warmth through her body. 

Being relied on and having capacity to give—Ochako has never experienced this before. This is intimate beyond her imagination.

Maybe this is how love begins.

When the two finally part, the ningyo slipping away unceremoniously, Ochako is left lightheaded under the first glow of the moon.

The trek home is both endless and instantaneous. The forest stands still and dark when Ochako turns to take one final glance back. She enters her home with trembling legs. 

When she lays to sleep, she presses two fingertips against her arm, imagining them as pointed teeth. Her vision suddenly bursts with flames of static and her body goes limp, trapped beneath the weight of the blankets.

When the sun rises and morning arrives, she is too weak to wake.

Two days pass. While fevers wrack her body, Ochako is plagued by visions of the water—of dark fins and a bright tail, of a smile like the crescent moon. Her parents fuss diligently, clouds of worry spilling from their bodies and gathering by the bed, ready to suffocate and swallow Ochako whole. But as she slips in and out of consciousness, eyes heavy with exhaustion, she fixates on the bedroom window.

“Ocha-chan?” her mother asks after the girl mumbles something incoherent. Lines run through the skin of her forehead—an unending tide. “Is something wrong?”

The girl groans. “Hngh…f—flies.”

“Ocha-chan?” Her voice rings with the pitch of panic.

“Fireflies,” the girl manages, gasping. Her vision is too unreliable—smearing every color and shape together—to see if the bugs are dancing through the trees.

“What about them sweetie?”

Heat courses through her body, swallowing her brain. She whines, breath quickening as tears of futility pool in her eyes. Everything feels so urgent, and she is imprisoned in her bed.

“Ocha-chan… Ochako!?”

The girl sighs in defeat, losing to the force of her eyelids. Like a wave against the shore, sleep washes over her with ease. She has no choice but to surrender.

But she can’t stand the thought of the ningyo waiting for her, alone.

When Ochako is finally strong enough to stand, she spends her day feeling restless, anxiously waiting for the sun to fall and darkness to seep through the sky. She routinely lifts the sleeve of her shirt to stare at the markings on her arms, a finger running over two small, dark scabs. During dinner, her eyes focus on the window, waiting eagerly for a spark of yellow.

“—chan? Ochako!”

She jolts from her trance, turning to face her mother.

“Are you still not feeling well?”

She shakes her head. “I’m okay.”

“Really? You still seem out of it…”

“Try to eat more,” her father encourages. “Meat will help you regain your strength.”

Ochako nods as her eyes descend to her bowl, watching shrimp wontons bob through a thick soup. The meat is sweet on her tongue, chewy and coated in salty broth. Her stomach tightens when she imagines the animals in front of her, long and spindly bodies skittering out of the bowl and across the table. They track soup along the floor as they make their escape, leaping when they reach the stream. Skinny legs shuffle through the water, leading all the way to the river she yearns to return to.

“Ocha-chan—” her mother’s voice tears her from the window once again. “Are you sure you’re okay?Her spine straightens as she nods, spooning another dumpling into her mouth. This time as the flavor floods her tongue, she has the morbid curiosity of what she tastes like.

She is not the first to arrive at the river. 

When she crests the hill she immediately looks for the water, searching for the stones standing in its darkness. A figure rests on the one closest to the bank. Ochako’s heart stirs as she descends to the shallows, itching to run but restraining herself. Heated excitement boils along her skin when she finally stands before a slippery tail and sharp fins. Her eyes shine as they trace claws and teeth and scales. 

“Hi,” she whispers, a reverent breath. 

The ningyo inhales, eyes rapidly scanning the girl’s skin. It leaps into the depth of the water.

Ochako blinks, swallowing the disappointment rising in her chest. It floods her lungs while a weight sinks in her stomach, plummeting somewhere deeper than she knew existed. Her eyes water, brown lakes of hurt and confusion. Should she have tried to return sooner? Was that enough to lose her merit, her trust?

The water stirs.

A head slices through the surface, ripples circling pale hair. Ochako’s breath catches. It’s too easy for her to hope, her heart switching between guilt and glee with commitment she is not prepared for, rocking her like a ship through a storm. The ningyo inches closer, carving through the water until it begins crawling along the bank. Its stare is enough to beckon Ochako forwards.

Yes, she feels the answer nestled in her chest. Always yes.

The two meet in ankle deep water, where a stone is wedged into the sand. The ningyo heaves itself on the flat surface, dragging with it the writhing body of an eel. It’s long, longer than Ochako’s legs, and wide enough that the beast's fingers don’t touch in their grip—instead digging sharp nails into the flesh. The animal wriggles desperately, tail slapping against the rock and water in protest.

The ningyo extends its arm. An offering, Ochako realizes—for her.

She immediately shakes her head, hands raising in gesture for the creature to take it back. Her eyes scan spindly arms and visible ribs, the hollowness of the creature’s cheeks. “I don’t need it.”

Pale eyes twitch, furrowing in a glare. The ningyo’s lips part, exposing teeth as they lower to piercing the slippery skin. The head of the eel squirms violently, beady eye twitching as fins flare, making futile attempts to breathe—or maybe scream. Blood pours from the puncture wounds, a line of crimson. The ningyo extends its arm a second time.

Panic bubbles in Ochako’s chest as the liquid rolls down the side of the eel, threatening to drip from the bottom of its belly. Without thinking, she reaches for it, cupping the animal where it’s bleeding before it can be wasted, and pushing her hand towards the ningyo’s mouth. 

“Take it,” she insists. “I’m okay.”

Hesitantly, the creature obeys, finally lowering its head. It refuses to break her gaze as it drinks, lips touching the slippery flesh before sucking. It laps hungrily, hurriedly, claws digging to keep the animal still. Eventually the eel goes stiff, unmoving as the last of its life is drained. Ochako watches in fascination, stomach twisting the way it did at dinner.

This feels different than the shrimp, somehow. 

When the eel is discarded, thwacking against the stone before sliding into the water, Ochako’s hands are all that remain between the pair. They are still smeared with scarlet, precious blood.

The ningyo reaches for them, clutching her softness between careful claws. Its tongue laps through her fingers and the lines of her palm, tracing every bump and curve and wrinkle. Ochako is frozen, watching with bated breath as if this moment will end if she makes the wrong move. Her eyes dart with greed, roaming with the intention to memorize every detail of this creature—the sharpness of its eyes, the softness of its lips. Wet hair clinging to its face. The occasional flicker of fins.

The creature’s touch is warm despite the chill of the night. Heat radiates from her hands until it nestles into her chest. This feeling blooming inside her, this buzz, is like the warmth of the sun. Something divine. Something like love.

“Himiko.” Ochako breathes the word like a prayer, a promise. She doesn't know why she says it; what depths it bubbled from. But it rises with urgency, like a secret impatiently waiting to escape its confines and make itself known.

The ningyo pauses, Ochako fears from displeasure, until a moment passes and those lips (so, so, so soft) curl against her skin.

Something akin to a purr rumbles through the chest of the ningyo—of Himiko. It—she—grins while nuzzling her face into Ochako’s palms. A hum sounds, high and clear, the trill of a bird's sweetest song. Ochako’s skin is alive, hands searing as she dares to press them firmer against Himiko’s cheeks.

“Himiko,” Ochako repeats, this time louder. Confident.

Himiko’s head shakes, burying itself further in Ochako’s hold. Another sound releases from the ningyo’s lungs: a high pitched babble. Ochako’s grin grows uncontrollably, cheeks tight with glee. Her heart is warm, so warm.

A sudden pressure captures two fingers, a firm but dull row of edges and points. A bite—soft and playful. Ochako watches with awe as Himiko scrapes her teeth over skin, the vibration of giggles accompanying the rough sensation. The girl is reminded of a cat: their flickering ears and affectionate gnawing. Himiko’s eyes flutter closed and open again, holding Ochako’s gaze. Her irises flood with the blackness of the sky, and her mouth pulls sharply into the curve of the moon.

Ochako’s chest tickles, and all she can think is—

Cute.

The remainder of Ochako’s summer break flies by, passing like a riptide—all at once, exhilarating. The night becomes her ally, the fireflies her friends. Her parents’ sleep and lack of attention a source of peace. 

Himiko waits for Ochako as dutifully as Ochako waits for the evening. The ningyo perches along the stones, fins flickering with anticipation. The human finds a special warmth in knowing someone is waiting for her—someone who counts on her making an appearance, who will sit with the anticipation and the urgency for her.

One night, Himiko offers a return gift: a handful of pearls. They’re perfectly smooth, shining like tiny moons in her palm. Ochako inspects them under the lamp in her room, marveling at the variety in color. Cream, pink, gold. A single black one. They make soft clicking sounds as they roll through the divots in her hand, and Ochako is taken by their perfection. Afraid of what her parents will do if they find them, she keeps them in a bag under her pillow. 

On nights when the insects take longer to light, she rolls her hands through the pearls while glancing out the window, urging the clock to hurry.

Ochako wants to know if Himiko’s heart also hurts when the time moves too slow. Does she pray the sun will fall faster, plummeting the sky into darkness just so they can meet a few minutes sooner?

The cynical part of Ochako’s heart—the one weathered by her parents’ view on the world—says yes, but only because of what the girl can offer. It says Himiko’s grin is only a display of sharp teeth eager to sink into her flesh, to taste and to drain her.

(The desperate part of her heart says she doesn't care. That this is an exchange where she can feel needed. Why should she care why Himiko waits and grins under moonlight, eyes shining like the moon itself?)

But Himiko takes from Ochako sparingly, spaced out by days and in small quantities. The hopeful part of Ochako’s heart assumes this is a form of consideration, for her small body that fell ill days ago. During the nights in between, Himiko eats from Ochako’s tender hands, letting the human watch as the ningyo steals life from other creatures, breathing them into herself before discarding them to the water.

How many corpses live in this river, Ochako wonders. How many skeletons line the murky floor? All these stones that cover the bank, sun bleached and brilliant white—are these pebbles the smoothed fragments of bone? Is Ochako sifting her feet through a cemetery every night, walking along a graveyard where the deceased are never buried? The skeleton of the dolphin is still in sight, greeting her every time she visits.

Now, she finds its presence comforting.

After each meal, Himiko will clean Ochako’s hands and steal any evidence of their encounters. Ochako places those hands on Himiko’s cheeks, runs fingers along the fins that sprout beneath her temples. Himiko’s eyes flutter, mouth stretching into a smile that Ochako can only describe as sweet before the creature’s head shakes to latch her teeth onto fingers, gnawing down chubby knuckles and grasping the plush skin of Ochako’s palm. 

Ochako feels a rush every time she gives herself to Himiko. The sting of fangs pierce through her skin and tear through the scabs attempting to heal, but the pain brings a rush of heat through her body, settling in her stomach and chest. She loves the feeling of being relied on, not coddled and fussed over. This is a love of need. Ochako is used to a love outlined by borders—limits on what she can do, what she can give, what she can take. But Himiko takes and takes and takes. And Ochako wants her to.

Ochako lets herself be greedy in return. She pulls Himiko closer, runs her eyes over her body, touches her skin and nails and teeth. Fingers thread through the creature’s hair, prodding at the clumps of other animals that are forced into her flesh. Himiko lets her, happily preening under the attention and the touch. It makes Ochako greedier, hungrier to know this unusual being.

Ochako learns that there is a part of her heart she did not see before, one that clings and aches and yearns. One that wants to spear inside of Himiko the way the ningyo sinks teeth into Ochako’s arms.

It scares her.

“Ocha-chan, are you picking at your arms? Those cuts aren’t getting any better.”

The girl’s heart quickens, instinctively running her opposite hand along the scabs—scabs that have not faded in a week. Luckily they’re small and easy to keep out of sight, but with her mother holding her hand as they walk along the dock, she scrutinizes them closely.

Ochako doesn’t answer.

“What’d you do to hurt yourself, anyways?” her father interjects. “They’re weird marks.”

She shrugs on instinct, frowning at her arm in a manner that convinces the adults of her ignorance. Ochako has learned that this is her failsafe, the best way to avoid outright lying or telling truths that will take important things away from her.

“Try not to make them worse,” her mother adds softly. “You’ve never had this problem before.”

The girl nods, only half listening as the trio enters the market. Brown eyes spot her friends before glancing towards her mother, pleading.

“Can I talk to Hanta?”

The response is as usual: an apprehensive nod. “Don’t leave their table, okay?”

Ochako bounds over, openly grinning when she stands before the table. She turns to wave at her parents before shining eyes meet wide, black ones.

Black eyes that drop to her arm.

Her heart stutters, hesitating at the shock on Hanta’s face. He’s never looked so surprised.

“Woah,” is all he says. 

Koji doesn’t share his disbelief. Ochako watches them both, brow furrowing.

“You… the yellow one? At the southern shore?”

Her frown deepens as she shakes her head. “The river in the woods. I don’t know what color she is.”

“The river…” he trails off, turning to Koji.

The shorter boy responds with a nod and series of hand gestures. One includes him opening a balled fist, like sunrays flaring, or a blooming flower.

“That’s Musu land,” Hanta says, watching Koji’s hands as they continue dancing. “And freshwater. The Kono live in the ocean. Maybe she swims upshore for food, to avoid the boats.”

Kono, that word again. Ochako repeats it. “Where… where do they come from?”

Hanta shakes his head. “They’re people. Lost people.”

“People?”

“Usually kids. Younger than us.”

Ochako frowns. “But they become—” monsters, her brain continues. Beasts that incite fear and inflict pain. Though, only if you see them that way, if you choose to be afraid. “They become Kono?”

Hanta nods.

“Why do they change?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the water is the only place you can go.”

Her frown deepens. What circumstances would force someone to the water, for it to be their only solace? What happened to Himiko for this to be her life—darting between river and sea, no choice but to drink from animals, to be reduced to skin and bones.

“Do they…” her eyes widen. “Can they turn back into people?”

Hanta blinks, processing the question. He doesn’t know.

Ochako wishes she could sit here forever, sharing questions with Hanta and Koji. They answer her freely, honestly. They admit when they don’t know. She wants to share more, to share the beauty she was shown, to ask if they have seen it too. Admiration waits on the tip of her tongue, descriptions of Himiko’s smile, the unexpected gentleness hiding in her claws and teeth.

She thinks they already know.

“Thank you,” she says instead, voice low and soft. “For teaching me.”

Hanta shakes his head. “You already knew.”

Ochako has hardly a moment to consider what that means when a commotion stirs at the entrance of the markets. A deep shout, followed by a thrum of voices chattering at once—panicking. Ochako frowns as the crowd shifts, people rushing by the table and forcing her closer to the boys.  A hand finds her arm, her father materializing to lift her on his hip.

“Sorry kid. It’s getting busy, so we’ll have to leave sooner than usual.” His voice is level, but he looks troubled.

“What happened?” she asks quietly, shifting in his arms. The crowd is thick around them. Her eyes don’t travel far. 

“Just Higa-san causing some excitement. He got something strange today.”

Ochako’s heart jolts, eyes scanning furiously. Her stomach sinks with the heaviness of an omen. Her father’s hand cups her hair—an attempt to redirect her attention. Her unease grows.

“I wanna see.”

“No you don’t.” His reply is rushed, unconvincing. Irritating. “We need to go.”

Ochako cranes her neck, wriggling in her father’s arms. He grunts, voice hardening. “Ochako—”

She sees it. Past the tables lining the square, towards the exit on the docks, stands a swarm of people. With her hand pressing on her father’s shoulder, she has the leverage to skim her eyes overhead and catch the center of their attention—Higa-san, face twisted in a victorious grin. It’s sinister, sending chills through her veins.

In his hand thrusting triumphantly in the air is an arm: mangy, green, coated in scales. Purple fins protrude along the side and claws hang from the end. It’s been severed at the bicep, a loose tangle of flesh and skin, stringy muscle with the sharp splinter of bone.

Ochako panics, breaths turning to the staccato of panting. The air doesn’t fill her lungs, leaving her chasing for more, hurried.

“Ochako—”

She screams, a blood curdling sound. Harsh and high, raspy, one that floods any adult with fear. Heads turn towards the sound, eyes catching her twisted face, reddening furiously and flooding with tears.

Her parents move, attempting to calm her with soothing words that she can’t hear. Her father runs a hand along her back as he continues for the closest exit, people freely parting to let them through. But it only pushes Ochako further, pulling another round of wails from the depths of her throat, spilling from the sickness in her stomach. The cries are broken and unrelenting. Hands touch her face. Her mother’s mouth moves to catch her attention, but Ochako misses every word, deafened by her own screams.

“---be okay. There’s—safe, only—in the water. … protect—”

Ochako’s face crumples further, eyes squeezing with pain. She knows what her mother is trying to say: that she’s safe, the danger is only in the water, that people are here to protect her from whatever that was.

Ochako wails, but not from fear.

Or at least, not the fear her mother thinks she feels.

She cries herself to sleep and wakes in her room, staring out the window as soon as her eyes flutter open. The sun hangs low, casting orange through the clouds. The smell of cooked fish rises from the crack beneath her door.

Ochako hardly eats before returning to bed. She waits as the moon’s fullness lifts above the trees and dots of yellow blink above the stream. As soon as her parents close their bedroom door, she runs into the night.

There is no flirtatious dance with the shore. Ochako stomps through the water, charging straight to the stones where Himiko usually waits. The ningyo is present, pressed against her usual rock. She freezes at Ochako’s erratic movements, alarmed. Before the creature can react, small hands and arms engulf her shoulders and torso.

Only now is the unease in Ochako’s stomach settled. Himiko is here, alive and in front of her.

Himiko’s head jerks, nuzzling itself into the nook of Ochako’s neck. The girl sobs.

Red fins flicker against the brunette’s skin. The ningyo shifts and Ochako panics, arms tightening on instinct. Himiko stills. Ochako continues to sob, one hand shakily moving to Himiko’s forearm, tracing the skin, squeezing the flesh. She’s intact, whole. Both arms. Skin and bone and fins.

Confused, Himiko mirrors her actions. She runs sharp nails over Ochako’s skin, scraping as they squeeze in return. The pain is stabbing, sharp, but Ochako welcomes it, leans further into the touch.

Himiko is here.

The girl’s cries don’t wane for a long time, but the ningyo never protests or makes for an escape. Instead she lays pliant, easily held as if she welcomes the worry.

A sharpness grazes Ochako’s collarbone, the base of her throat. The girl doesn’t flinch, one hand raising to nestle into pale strands of hair. Encouraging. When the teeth finally pierce her, the sting comes with a wave of relief, body falling limp with relaxation. With Himiko wrapped in her arms and buried in her flesh, Ochako is reminded that she has something to give.

When Himiko finishes she runs her tongue along the skin, lapping until the runs of scarlet are fully cleaned. It tickles, pulling giggles from the girl. Himiko makes a throaty sound in response, the vibrations running along Ochako’s throat.

Bodies still wound in a tangle of arms and legs and tail, Ochako finds the strength to pull her head from Himiko’s. Under the full strength of the moon, she sees details that were previously secrets: the touch of gold that seeps through Himiko’s skin and scales, shimmering in her irises and every strand of hair. The fins lining her body are deep crimson along the edge, like blood seeping from her veins. Himiko—true to name—is the embodiment of light. Ochako is lost in the way Himiko’s body shimmers under the moon, illuminating the growing plush of her cheek, the point of her teeth. 

Then Himiko blinks, and something sparkles.

Pink sprouts from the center of Himiko’s irises, blooming to settle in the rims. Rosiness dusts her hair, runs along the veins that trail from flesh to fin. When Ochako finds the will to look away from Himiko’s face, she finds the sparkles trail down to her claws, clustered in her nails. They run along her tail, fluttering through scales and pooling in her largest fin.

The sight is beautiful, impossible. Here by the water with the Ochako’s blood running through her body, Himiko glows. Her light holds its own against the strength of the moon, her own lantern to navigate wherever she yearns to be.

Ochako thinks she is witnessing magic.

Is this what everyone fears—so much they won’t even skim their fingers over the water? Himiko grins, the glint of a knife, before yanking Ochako’s arm to drag her deep into the darkness. Ochako does not resist, does not know how to resist. She only hopes that Himiko will not let her go.

Ochako bursts awake, sitting upright with a gasp. Dreams and reality dance through her mind, still hazy with sleep. A hand reaches for the base of her neck, right beneath the collar of her shirt. The raw skin stings beneath her fingers. It’s sticky, the residual ooze glistening when she pulls away.

She flops backwards with a sigh. Memories of Himiko bloom behind her eyes: her pretty grin, her tight embrace, the pink bioluminescence that scattered along her body. Her teeth, piercing through the skin of her throat.

Ochako exhales, hands fisting the blanket.

Eventually she stands, stealing a glance out the window while she tugs up her collar and makes for the kitchen.

Her mother prepares an omelet, laid neatly across fried rice at the base of the bowl. The egg unrolls perfectly when cut.

“Did you sleep okay Ocha-chan?”

She nods.

“You’ve been waking up later than usual,” her father notes. “Try not to stay up so late. You start school again this week.”

Ochako nods again.

“I’ll be working again,” her mother adds. “So we’ll both be gone when you come home. Are you interested in any clubs? Maybe it’d be good to have something to keep you at school.”

Ochako pauses, considering. Nothing comes to mind. She isn’t particularly interested in sports, and the other clubs usually have fees or requirements to buy supplies. She shakes her head. She would rather spend that time elsewhere—with Himiko.

“That’s fine,” her father answers. “The neighbors will be around if you need anything. Just stick to the usual rules, okay?”

Stay in the backyard, Ochako thinks. A promise routinely broken. She nods.

Her mother frowns. “Are you sure you don’t want to try anything? I don’t want you to get lonely if we get back late.”

Ochako watches her parents trade glances, uncertain what they mean. Her father is uncharacteristically relaxed. Her mother is unusually stressed, pushing.

“Let her do what she wants,” her father’s voice is firm. His brow furrows before his eyes widen. Ochako doesn’t know what that means, but her mother sighs and nods.

The air has a tension Ochako is not used to. She prods, curious. “Why are you working late?”

Her mother smiles tightly. “Just changes in the company. Don’t worry about it.”

The tension thickens.

After her first day back at school, Ochako returns to an empty house. The neighbor waves as she walks home, letting the girl know she can call if anything happens. Ochako hurries after nodding, running inside to drop her bag and change clothes. There is no hesitation as she treads outside, beyond the boundary of her home. No fireflies light her path—this time wandering under the heat of the sun. 

Inexplicably, Ochako intuits that Himiko knows she is coming. She crests the hill, panting and flustered. Brown irises scan the rocks, the water—water incredibly blue.

A head bursts from the plane, scattering ripples across its surface. Himiko, hair like starlight and eyes molten gold, bobbing towards the shore. Ochako grins, racing forwards.

They no longer rely on the moon to meet, neither the darkness she rests in or the bugs that carry her light. Himiko is a ritual to Ochako, now under the sun.

Ochako thinks this is how it was meant to be, that Himiko was made to be seen in her fullness, in the confidence of day. She’s easier to understand, to watch, to know. The depth of her colors are apparent, the flashes of gold and flushes of pink. She internalizes that light, shines it along her scales and fins when she leads Ochako through murk and shadow.

Maybe Himiko is a star, a sun. A source of light and warmth. 

(Of love.)

Ochako knows she should return home when red blooms along the horizon; her parents will be home in less than an hour. She turns to Himiko’s delicate frame, her soft face. 

“Thank you.”

She struggles to elaborate. This is a thanks that holds weight in its ambiguity. She wants to add, For depending on me. For trusting me. For sharing with me things that are special to you.

“Thank you,” Himiko parrots, words coated in the scratch of thirst.

Ochako swallows. She can’t tell whether Himiko understands the words or not, if this language means anything to a creature of salt and claws and blood. But Ochako thinks she understands what Himiko has buried in her speech.

For seeing me. For taking me under your care. For coming back, time and time again.

Himiko’s body fills out with time, flesh over bone thickening with sturdiness and strength. Smaller animals still find their way into her skin—the sharp curved shell of a horseshoe crab, the spots of flounder. But her face remains soft, kind.

One afternoon, when the sun hangs hot at an angle, Ochako only has a moment to appreciate the sight of Himiko before the ningyo pulls her from the bank of the river. They fall into the crystal of water, clear aquamarine. Himiko holds Ochako tightly, the girl squeezing with equal strength as she kicks her legs.

Ochako’s gaze follows the now familiar floor of the river: large stones smoothed by time, white and banded and broken. Like bones of an unfathomable giant that used to roam the earth. Tufts of grass peek through the cracks. Fish dart through the hairs, small and silver, glittering when a ray of sun catches their scales. 

They pass banks Ochako knows, stones that she holds fondness for, pockets along the shore that she recognizes as homes. Her eyes light with familiarity, catching sight of other creatures she has come to love.

The river is a second home.

Himiko leads Ochako further than they’ve been before. When the river widens as it winds around a hill, the stones grow into boulders. They line an opening beneath the bank, a set of ancient teeth framing a mouth of darkness. Himiko carries forward without pause. Ochako does not resist.

A minute stretches slowly, rolling like a stone against the current. Light shortly fades to blackness as the pair is swallowed by the cave. The water squeezes Ochako’s temples, ears popping when she adjusts her jaw. Stone wraps around them, faults and fragments jutting just out of reach. Ochako’s heart races, lungs tightening.

Darkness claims her vision for an instant before it blooms with pink. Himiko’s body glows, dust sparkling along her form. It illuminates the walls, the shadows of figures dancing as they carry forwards. 

Himiko is the light—she is Ochako’s compass and way. 

The water shifts, heavier against their bodies. A chill rushes over Ochako as Himiko twists through the channels. Her lungs start to burn.

Before air comes, Ochako has her first taste of sea. Salty, sweet. A light streams ahead and brown eyes widen, catching a rush of colors blooming beneath her. 

They slip through an opening, one that overwhelms Ochako with blue. Blue when she takes her first glimpse of the open water, blue when Himiko drags her through the surface to breathe. Ochako gasps, heaving deeply as she clutches to the ningyo—her lifeline. Her heart races, fueled by her desperate breaths, and rooted in the warnings she remembers before anything else: Stay away from the water. 

Danger, danger, danger, blares through her mind, punctuated by each erratic heartbeat. 

Himiko adjusts her grip, wrapping an arm around Ochako’s waist. The calamity quiets.

Ochako’s breaths slow and her body relaxes, eyes roaming with wonder. The pair float next to a cliff: a slab of dark rock jutting between sky and ocean. Though she’s never seen it from this angle, Ochako knows cliffs like these only exist in the south of the island. The face of the rock curves around them, hugging Himiko who holds Ochako. Along its surface are blooms of coral, lengths of kelp, seagrasses woven together. The rocks are a second shore beneath the surface, a forest for fish to bury themselves in, before dropping straight down.

Ochako’s stomach sinks, falling through the abyss below her. Heights have never been an issue, but floating here, above a depth she cannot fathom, her body buzzes with a fear she did not know she could feel. She latches onto Himiko for life. 

The ningyo holds her steady. Her tail sways to propel them around the face of the rocks—slowly, to let Ochako take in the force of blue, the lives that drift within it, depend on it. Wonder swallows her and steals every sense in her body, coating her eyes and squeezing her ears. Something aches in her chest, hollowing out her heart in a yearning to understand, to learn. Himiko’s touch helps to soothe the sting, but the pain lingers.

When they round the corner, they glide over reefs—rooted in an ocean floor. Ochako’s stomach eases at the sight of sand and stone beneath her. 

Her stomach drops again when she looks up. A figure bobs in the water ahead of them, a notable distance from the proper shore.

In a panic she clutches Himiko and kicks her legs. It’s a futile attempt to escape, to protect the ningyo from being spotted. The creature doesn’t budge, her tail much stronger in the water than Ochako’s legs. The human struggles, eyes wide in fear and confusion.

“Himiko—” she wails, breathy. Doesn’t she understand that she’s in danger?

Himiko looks at Ochako with equal confusion, head cocked. The girl frowns, sparing another glance at the figure in the water. Her breath catches.

The figure is Hanta, floating on a surfboard. His dark hair sticks against his head, lean frame covered by a sleeved shirt she does not recognize. His head twitches before turning towards the pair, large eyes meeting Ochako. He freezes, then grins. The contact only lasts another second before he paddles through a wave, board sliding against clear blue and towards the shore—where Koji sits in the sand, Ochako realizes.

A heaviness tugs at her heart. Her lips twist in a pout as she rests her head in the crook of Himiko’s neck. Her stomach hurts with something. Something like envy.

When the ningyo returns her to the bank of the river, Ochako soaked in her day clothes, words bubble up her throat without warning, spilling with urgency.

“I love you.”

Himiko’s fins flicker against her head. Her lashes flutter twice before a grin spans her face. All sharp, bright teeth.

“Love you,” she echoes, voice the smoothness of a pearl.

Ochako’s eyes pool with tears. Her chest and stomach hurt. She wants to hear Himiko say it again and again. Himiko’s voice makes the words mean something she’s never known before.

“Wish I could stay,” she whispers, searching for an answer. A lump forms in her throat.

“Stay,” Himiko whispers back.

But she can’t. So Ochako walks home, that lump in her throat never settling.

“Ocha-chan,” her mother starts at dinner—this one rare, before sunset. Alarm bells had blared through the girl’s body during the afternoon, alerting her to come home just in time for their arrival. “Your dad and I are planning a trip to Mie for winter break.”

She nods, scraping the rice at the bottom of her bowl. It's a tradition for their family to visit the Ise shrine. “For New Years?” 

Her mother hums in affirmation.

Ochako frowns, pausing mid-bite. Will Himiko be okay alone for that long?

“Ochako?”

Round eyes turn to her father’s wrinkled face.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, just—will we be there the whole break?”

“Mhmm. Your mother and I need to take a couple trips to a couple cities we haven’t been before: Kameyama and Suzuka.”

Her brow furrows further. Her grandparents are in Matsusaka; they only ever visit the south of Mie or east, where her other extended family live. “What’s in Kameyama and Suzuka?”

“Some businesses we need to visit for work,” her mother answers. “But we can also visit some of the historical sites. I’d like to see the neighborhoods, too.”

“Okay.” It sounds boring to Ochako, and she doesn’t get why a neighborhood would be worthwhile to see. “Why do you need to visit for work?”

They make a few comments, but none of them feel like an answer.

The last time Ochako runs along the stream, she doesn’t bother changing from her uniform. After dumping her backpack by the door she makes a run for the woods. Urgency pulls her, a fish reeled along Himiko’s line.

She bursts from the thick of trees, shoes sliding against the pebbles as she slows. Her eyes dart anxiously across the shore, feet stuttering when they catch pale gold glimmering above a stone. She steadies herself, marching forwards while Himiko clutches the rock in tense arms. Ochako grins as the ningyo pulls itself to shore—

Ochako nearly slips down the bank. Her feet freeze while her eyes grow to full moons.

Himiko walks.

They’re shaky steps on unpracticed legs, but she rises. The ningyo—or now human—stands. Her figure is bare except for the water rolling down her skin. It glistens in the sun, daytime stars raining against her body. A human body. A body like Ochako’s, with sturdy legs and a round face. 

Ochako’s heart stutters, lips parted as Himiko inches closer, soft feet pressing sharp rock. She carries herself with uncertainty, alien in a body that she once knew well. The brunette takes one step forward, encouraging.

“Himiko.” The sound is hardly a breath, lungs emptied in awe.

Is this what love can do: transform creatures, let them take the parts of one another that bring them closer together? Ochako’s every step, her diligence to return—is this the result of her careful questions, her patience? It must be her blood running through Himiko’s body, her flesh covering her bones. Every taste of Ochako’s blood was a pact, the whisper of a swear.

A promise that brought them here.

Himiko continues with the shake of a fawn. Ochako watches carefully, stepping slowly. Patiently, always patiently waiting for her. But her heart thrums, buzzing all the way to her fingertips as she imagines meeting Himiko’s hands. Their fingers can interlace into a basket of tenderly woven flesh, letting Ochako pull Himiko along her own world—through grass and trees and sky.

Ochako can bring her home. She can bring her two homes together.

She holds her breath for Himiko’s final steps, speeding her own so they can meet in the middle. Her hands raise, palms facing the sun—facing Himiko’s reaching for her.

A sharp snap sounds from another part of the woods. A spear releasing, shooting across the bank to pierce Himiko’s back. Ochako flinches and Himiko screams, teeth bared and eyes shrunken in pain. The sound is cut a second later when her flesh dissolves midair, cells bubbling into red liquid that bursts, coating Ochako’s front and splattering the ground before her. She stumbles, arms still stretched as she collapses, knees bruising against Himiko’s stain.

Sounds erupt from the side, chaotic but muffled while Ochako’s lungs tighten. She heaves, half gags and half desperate gulps of air, as she frantically shoves her hands against the stones. The world is split, torn into two as she wails. Saltwater floods her vision, splattering against the spill of Himiko. 

Commotion follows. A hand grasps Ochako’s arm and she screams, thrashing in the hold of someone wearing two shades of blue—a police officer. She catches similar figures scattered throughout the shore, surrounding her. 

Her cries are deafening. Under the scorching light of the sun, her body is hot, too hot. The sizzling crack of lightning. She doesn't want to be touched. She wants Himiko. Himiko’s flesh, her own flesh, a body she had yet to understand and love in its entirety.

She blinks through her storm, vision clearing enough to spot Higa-san by an officer. He holds his speargun in hand, face twisted in that sinister grin of victory.

For all her questions about love, all her curiosities and her doubts, Ochako is certain when she sits atop Himiko’s melted remains. Staring at Higa-san through her pinched face, all Ochako knows is that this feeling in her chest and stomach—this tightness and sickening void—is her first experience of hatred.

“Crossed paths with Luffy.”

You grin against Ace’s chest, his skin hot beneath your lips. Hotter than the sand that surrounds you, the dust of shore on this quiet island.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” he hums. “He’s got the beginnings of a proper crew. They’re good people, the kind who’ll look out for him.”

He doesn’t continue, but you can tell he has more to say. You’re on edge to hear about this fated interaction, a day Ace dreamt of aloud often on the Moby Dick. But there’s a haze in his eyes, a distance that clues you into what he’s thinking. Your smile falters.

“If—” he halts.

You wait.

“They’re good people,” he tries again. “Real good people. They know how to take care of each other. Luffy… he’s gonna be okay in their hands.”

You nod.

“The cook, Sanji…” his eyes dart to yours, mouth twisting. “He… If I weren’t so selfish, I’d tell you to find a guy like him instead.”

“Ace!” You frown, pulling your head from his chest. The sad, resigned smile he sports is heartbreaking. “Don’t say that. You know I don’t want anyone who isn’t you.”

“He’d treat you so well,” he continues easily, lifting your fingers to his lips. “Baby, if something happens to me—”

“Ace,” you growl. You yank your hand from his so you can cup his cheek, holding his head firmly so he can’t escape your glare. He has the courtesy to look embarrassed. You sigh. “I love you.”

He inhales. You watch the inflation of his chest, the surprise in his eyes that you wish you could steal and bury somewhere far, far away.

“I love you,” he echoes easily, fingers tracing up your sides.

Your chest buzzes, but you shake your head. “I love you.”

He pauses, eyes uncertain. You nod with encouragement.

“You love me,” he breathes, voice trembling.

You smile before leaning to capture his lips. They’re hot against yours, the same burning heat that lives in his heart. When you break, still close enough to ghost his skin, you whisper, “I do.”

“You love me,” he says again, voice sturdier but chest aching.

“Only you,” you promise. “Always you.”

Only, you said. Always. They’re promises buried in your throat, sitting in your airways, sliding down to sink in the guilt of your stomach.

Lies, you’d call them now.

You wake surrounded in warmth, swaddled between the softness of the bedsheets and a firm chest. Your eyes flutter against bare skin, and your partner moves, shifting careful arms around your waist. He’s awake too, but neither of you speak, sitting in the stillness of deniability. 

Instead you breathe slowly, gripping onto a semblance of calm—blinking before your eyes can sting, swallowing the tightness over your heart. The steady rise and fall of the lungs you’re pressed against helps, guiding you through the motions.

Finally you stir and tilt your head. “G’morning.”

“Morning, sweet,” Sanji answers, voice thick from sleep. His arms shift, hand coming to your neck as he leans to kiss your forehead. “You’re up earlier than usual.”

You hum, leaning into his touch as your lashes flutter. The words are lost; you don’t know what you want to say.

“Dream?” he asks—that intuitive sense for you.

You exhale, nodding on instinct. There’s no point in lying. “Yeah,” you breathe shakily.

Sanji’s arms constrict, bringing you closer. Warmer. You nuzzle into him and let yourself grimace against his skin. A sting flares behind your eyes, matching your chest.

“Intense?” he asks carefully, a murmur in your hair.

“Not graphic. Just sad.”

“Sad to dream about? Or sad to wake up from.”

Your vision blurs, water swelling over your irises. You don’t know. “I’m not sure. Both, maybe.”

Sanji hums, body still. “Want some time alone?”

“I don’t know.”

Experimentally, he loosens his arms, heat slipping away. The absence sends a chill through you; it leaves you breathless with panic. You shake your head with fervor, burying your face further into his chest. His arms return in an instant, tighter.

You choke out an exhale, muffled by his skin. A tender hand combs through your hair, promising understanding. Reassurance. 

“‘M sorry,” you whisper brokenly.

“Please don’t apologize to me, angel. Never for this.”

The tears flow freely, wetting the hairs along his chest. They trace through the divots of his muscle, taking long journeys to blot against the bedsheet. 

You think you won’t ever stop apologizing, that there will always be reason to plead your guilt. For the love that lingers in you for the dead. For dreaming of him, even when you now sleep in Sanji’s arms. For sometimes needing Ace’s arms around you instead.

Later, when your voice finds its steadiness, you’ll share snippets of your dream—memories of your time with him, the insecurities you fear you are now validating when you lean into Sanji’s touch and voice and love. Another apology will fall through your lips, you don’t know for which man, and the cook will once again tell you that you have nothing to be sorry for.

You’ll purse your lips and swallow every following confession that rises to the surface. Guilt will spread through your blood knowing you did not tell him everything. But Sanji will smile sadly, understanding that some things are better left unsaid.

Like his own dream last night, where Ace visited him too. They were placed in a familiar scene, aboard the Merry and draped in protective robes. Sanji sliced vegetables while Ace sat at the table with a grin. Blue eyes flickered between the food and the company, lingering on the front of his cloth, imagining the hollowness hidden beneath it.

The same scene that you heard Ace recount in your own dream, his brief time with the Straw Hat pirates. Except in this version, he leads Sanji through a different conversation.

One where he says his gratitude for taking care of you.

Your relationship with Ace was like the man himself: passionate, fiery, burning. Tender, sweet. Gentle, giving. All-consuming. Life-affirming. Worth everything you had. Worth more. Worth chasing him. Worth putting your life on the line to save him—you and the entire crew of the Whitebeard Pirates.

You didn’t know your last time in Ace’s arms was going to be on the shore of that little island, the short space of safety nestled between his trip to Alabasta and Banaro. You wish you had clutched onto him firmer, longer. You wish you had tried to discourage him at all.

(But you know this isn’t true—you could never have attempted to dissuade him from what he wanted, what he needed to do. You fell for Ace; you fell for everything he was. Is.)

Marco had called for you in the midst of chaos, a voice thick with hurt. Garbled, marred, breathless. A gasp of your name.

Your blood ran cold at the sight, a river frozen through your body. The commander held your lover in his arms, both of them splattered in his remains, the red richness of his life. His flame.

“He’s—he’s so light—” Marco sobbed.

He was. When he was placed in your grasp he felt weightless, the touch of a feather. His skin was wet, slick with blood, red oozing down your wrists. The coppery scent overpowered the spray of salt, the stench of fish and sea. Black curls nestled against your elbow, an opened curtain. He looked peaceful, not a wrinkle on his face. The dust of a smile lingered across his lips.

The last time Ace laid in your arms, you learned that his heart was the heaviest thing in his body.

These dreams are the hardest, the worst days. The first thing to escape you is your hunger, the second is your ability to feel. Sanji faces the worst of the consequences, your avoidance of his food and his touch. But he knows these patterns well, and he knows how to break them. The first step is patience, the second is strategy.

Eventually you’ll appear, wanting to sit adjacent to the space of others. Soaking in the comfort of presence. It’s when he starts dinner, assuming his attention is too focused to notice you.

But this is Sanji.

“A snack, my love,” he coos unprompted, setting a plate of sliced fruit beside you. They were prepared earlier, waiting in the fridge.

Your heart squeezes, face pinching. “Sanji—”

A gentle hand brushes your shoulder. “Whatever you can manage.”

Tears surface. “Sanji,” you say again, this time the hiccup of a sob.

He breaks you, crumbles the stone of you into shards, into clumps of dust that dirties his hands. It hurts to watch you fall apart, but you need it. The release will free you, let you sift through yourself with a sense of clarity, allow you to pick out the gems and the treasures and hold them closer.

You only manage to eat a few slices of orange.

“‘M sorry,” you cry into his chest.

Sanji sighs, a protest for the apology, but he buries it quickly. Instead he redirects its origins. “Luffy will finish it.” 

The confusion disarms you, distracts you as you realize he means the fruit. You feel heavier in his hold, more relaxed.

“Come sit with me in the kitchen, love.”

You obey, let him tug you by the hand and sit you behind the counter. He leaves the plate at your side before resuming his position at the cutting board. The knife thumps against the wood with each slice, soft taps. A reminder that Sanji’s here.

He glances at you after chopping an onion. As soon as he meets your eyes he grins, and you are struck by the warmth of it.

“Thanks for keeping me company, dear.”

Another crack slides through your resolve. Before you know it you’re crying, furiously scrubbing tears away. His smile saddens.

“I’m—” you cut off your own apology, exhaling. “I wish it could be easier… for you.”

“The only part that hurts is knowing I can’t take away the pain.” He would, if there was a way to take your hurt as his own, to physically carry it for you.

You shake your head. The pain is part of loving Ace, of remembering.

A part of you wishes you didn’t cling so hard to him. That you could move forwards. Maybe even move on. The thought strikes you in the heart, and you immediately regret it.

“You deserve someone better.” Your voice is a whisper, a whimper.

“Oh.” 

The knife is discarded and in an instant he’s transported across the kitchen to hold you. You cry into his chest, the warmth of his arms. He knows how to hold you, to cradle his arm over your head and tuck it into his neck, nestle you where you can breathe him in. His touch is careful, knowing. Well practiced and sliding across your skin to soothe you.

“I take it back, my dear. The only other part that hurts is this guilt you feel for me.”

You sob into his skin.

Sanji pleads for you to know that he could never fault you for loving another man. You’ve chosen him now, and that’s enough.

You think you can understand what Ace meant, what he tried to say before you cut him off, If something happens to me—Sanji is understanding, with no expectations for you, but ones of the highest standard for himself. He is the only man you know who could watch you love another, and then still love you without limits, without fear slowing him down. Ace’s words—I’d tell you to find a guy like him instead—ring through your mind. If anything, this is the love he deserved. Were you able to show him a love this genuine and authentic when he was living?

But what Sanji doesn’t tell you is why he’s so understanding: because he met Ace, years ago when the two of you were together. He met the gentleman of fire in the throes of the desert and learned first hand how easy he is to love.

Some days are good, fulfilling even. You feel alive. You can carry the weight of everything with ease. Reminders of Ace are welcomed; they make him feel close, impossibly so. You see him in your captain’s smile and know that you chose the right place to be.

You can lean further into Sanji’s touch, let his whispers of love settle into your heart. You grin even, and say it back.

“I love you,” you promise, tangled in his limbs and sheets. “I love you so much.”

His smile is blinding as he preens under your words. The yellow of his hair splays across the pillow, a rumple of a man before you. It’s a rare moment where you can see both his eyebrows, the unmirrored swirls. You press your thumb to the one near his temple.

A thought crosses through your mind—what Ace would think of this, if he’s watching you now. Did he mean it when he said, If something happens to me— Did he picture it looking like this, years after your commitment to the Straw Hat Pirates. Is that long enough to be with someone else? Is it too long to still be thinking about him?

Sanji kisses the corner of your eye, brushing stray hairs behind your ear. The knot that began in your chest starts to loosen again.

Sometimes, in these moments, you can feel Ace sitting in the space with you two. Today you have courage; you tell Sanji.

He agrees.

You press yourself closer to him, try to burrow into his skin. He huffs a laugh and then exhales, an ocean wave emptying from his lungs. A conch shell, his clavicle the opening against your ear.

Ace rests with you, his essence heavy at your backside. It’s so warm like this. So full of love.

In these moments a string of hope runs through you, a thread of gold in your veins. You wonder if your previous lover is watching with a smile on his face. If there’s a sort of joy in watching you love again, love another. Is it fun even, to watch you dance with a man he thought was good for you, to watch you sweep Sanji off his feet and fall for you—the same fate Ace was subjected to.

Maybe he’s watching with bated breath, following the journey of you and his little brother—all while waiting, knowing there is a future where you will be with him again.

Tonight, when you fall asleep in Sanji’s arms, you have a different dream. Not a memory, but a new conversation.

You stand on an island you’ve never seen before, Ace’s hands clutching yours. Water laps at your feet, coating sand the color of his skin. Black grass blows inland, bending under the wind. The man grins before you and you are struck at the realization that he’s slightly aged—this is the Ace you would know today. His face splattered with freckles and sunlight and smiles.

Your tears spring immediately. He’s here, living and breathing. Grinning. 

“Ace,” you call—a whisper.

He’s all sweetness when he answers, murmuring your name while he wraps his arms around your torso. His warmth is stronger than the sun, his touch searing against your skin. He holds you with an ease you aren’t accustomed to.

“I love you.” It’s all you’ve wanted to tell him.

His mouth stretches into a smile against your hair. “I love you too, baby.”

You tilt your head to catch his expression. His grin pulls wider when he sees your face.

“I love you,” you repeat.

Pink dusts his cheeks, but his smile doesn’t waver. He kisses your forehead. “I know you do. You and everyone else.”

Tears prick your eyes again, and you nod into his neck. This is what you fought for—so you could stand here with Ace in his afterlife and hear his confidence in the love he was shown. Even if you couldn’t save him, he knows he was loved until the very end of his life, and after.

Your smile flickers before it dies, a candle’s flame. Does he still believe in your love for him now, when you wake up in the arms of another man? A sob escapes you. 

His grip tightens. “Baby?”

“I’m sorry,” you cry, gripping his skin. 

“Oh, baby…” he whispers, a broken sound. “None of that, please. I know you love me.”

The crying continues, a waterfall as you babble. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness—”

“Baby,” he pleads. Fingers clutch your arm, burning with a heat that should only belong to the living. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

Your face twists, mind racing with confessions. Leaving the Whitebeard Pirates—leaving Marco—to join Luffy instead. Letting yourself fall for the cook, letting yourself fall into his arms and build a relationship with him, all while remembering how Ace felt about him.

Baby, if something happens to me—

You sob again. “I love you—”

“I know, baby. I know,” he assures, running fingers down your arm, flickers of flame. “But you’re alive. You deserve to move and love and be loved back. ‘M never gonna fault you for that.”

Ace will hold you through the night, through the entirety of your dream as you find a sense of peace. When you wake, his fingerprints will leave the sting of a burn, and Sanji’s cool touch will smooth over them like a balm. Your heart will have a heaviness, the weight of grief, but the pain will feel more life-affirming than anything. You’ll have the urge to apologize when you meet Sanji’s blue eyes, but stop yourself; you know how he will respond.

(The same as Ace, saying there is nothing to forgive—there is nothing to be sorry for. That you aren’t at fault for living and feeling, and that ultimately, you deserve to feel loved, too.)