The lie

They say the sea recalls vows more than it remembers offerings.

When Mirva was chosen, she did not step forward.

She stood among the Muhien people, hands clenched at her sides, listening as the elders spoke her sister's name with reverence she did not understand. 

The temple fires burned low that evening, shadows stretching long across the stone floor, as if the sea itself leaned closer to hear her answer.

“I won’t be like you, ” she whispered, barely audible. 

The word fell heavier than silence.

Mirva had been raised knowing what priesthood meant. Fasting until the body trembled. Drinking saltwater until the tongue blistered. Dreams filled with unbearable futures no one wished to see. She had watched her older sister—the priestess before her—walk into the tide and never return.

That sacrifice had saved the people but it had also changed them.

After the flood, the Muhien spoke of priestesses as protectors, not burdens. They carved Maya's name into stone. They sang of devotion. They forgot the cost. 

Mirva was a selfish woman and because of that she unknowingly fulfilled her sister's wish. 

She loved a humble fisherman who spoke of leaving the coast one day, of orchards inland, and of love. 

With him, the future felt merciful.

So she lied.

She told the people the sea had spoken to her. That it had revealed its prophet at last—not a child of ancient magic, but a man of flesh. She took her lover’s hand and lifted it before the temple.

“This is the Sea Prophet,” she said. “The one the tides have waited for.”

Deep down, the people wanted to believe that a mere fisherman could be bestowed with the sea's blessing. They had lost too much already in the war of Ashes. 

They dressed him in blue and crowned him with shells.

The fisherman and Mirva got married beneath a sky heavy with unshed stars. for the first time, a priestess could step into a life of her own.

The sea watched, unmoving.

________

Years passed.

Their daughter, Ezra, was born during the spring season. The tide was gentle that night, and the moon thin and pale. The elders whispered that she carried the sea’s favor. 

They rejoiced at a child born from a miracle. Her mother, a priestess, and her father a prophet. 

Mirva held her child and prayed that it was true—prayed that love might shield Ezra from the inheritance she herself had resented.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The present 

The Sea, From a Distance

The radio crackled behind the counter sometime after noon.

Evan didn’t notice it at first. He was lining up cups by size—small, medium, large—his hands moving on instinct while the espresso machine hissed like a creature breathing through metal lungs.

“…weather advisory in effect,” the voice said. “Unstable tides reported along the coast. Fishermen are urged—”

Someone laughed near the corner, cutting the warning short.

“Always a storm somewhere,” the café owner said, tapping the counter with a spoon. “Sit. You’ve been standing since sunrise.”

The one-eyed sailor eased himself onto the high stool by the window, the one that faced the sea. His coat smelled faintly of salt and oil, the kind of smell that clung even after years away from water. 

Evan wiped his hands on his apron and reached for the grinder.

“Storm’s not the problem,” the old sailor said. “Something about the sea seems strange.”

The grinder roared to life. Evan didn’t look up.

The owner raised an eyebrow. “You saying the sea’s got a mind now?”

The sailor smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It always did.”

Milk steamed too quickly. Evan shut the machine off, breathed once, then started again slower. The radio continued in the background, half-drowned by café noise and the clink of porcelain.

“The tides have been pulling wrong,” the sailor went on. “As if they’re singing.”

Mister Jaafar glanced at Evan, then back at his friend, laughing. “You’re gonna scare the kid.”

Evan pretended not to hear. He poured the milk carefully, watched the surface smooth itself out.

The sailor said softly. "Is he the only one working here?”

"Kid’s been working mornings before class and sometimes evenings," the owner replied.

Outside, the sea stretched calm and bright, sunlight catching on its surface like scattered coins.

Evan slid the cup across the counter. “Your coffee.”

The sailor took it, studying Evan for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze lingered on the camera strap slung across Evan’s chest, then—just briefly—on the seashell necklace tucked beneath his shirt.

“Huh,” the sailor murmured.

“What?” the owner asked.

“Nothing.” The sailor stood, pulling on his coat. 

Evan’s fingers curled around the counter edge. 

"I’ve got work to do, goodbye Jaafar" the sailor hurried. 

The owner snorted. “Come back next time.”

The sailor nodded, already heading for the door.

The bell chimed. The café felt quieter after.

“He’s been like this since the eighties,” the owner said. “Guess the sea gets to people sometimes.” He chuckled.

“Anyways, take tomorrow off,” the owner said. “You’ve got exams coming up, ain’t that right?” He added with a stern look.

“I’m fine,” Evan said automatically.

“I know,” the owner said. “That’s why.”

Evan left the café and headed inland, the sea slipping out of sight behind him.

Halfway to the tram stop, he had the sudden, irrational sense of being observed—or noticed.

When he glanced back, there was only the street. People passing. Nothing out of place.