Between Tides

Noah

The air tastes like salt here. It clings to everything—my clothes, my skin, even the inside of my lungs. The cottage I rented isn’t much. Old wood, creaking floors, walls that feel like they’ve soaked up decades of storms. It’s small. Quiet, but it feels... solid. Worn. Still standing. I kind of like that.

I’m a myth hunter. Yeah, I know how that sounds. I pick up remote art commissions. Just enough to pay the bills.

The rest of my time?

I spend it chasing things that aren’t supposed to exist.

And yes.

I believe in magical creatures and I’ve believed in them for as long as I can remember. Not in the childish, fairy-tale way—not glitter and happy endings. The real kind. The kind that leaves marks. The kind people don’t talk about unless they’re sure no one’s listening. I don’t have proof. Not yet. But I will.

I’ve been to places like this before—small towns with stories that don’t quite make sense, places that feel just a little off if you stay long enough. Nothing solid so far. But I know they’re real. They have to be.

And now I’m here.

A seaside village full of mermaid stories, not to brag, but yeah... that’s kind of my thing.

Everyone knows The Little Mermaid—the original one, not the Disney version. I prefer the original. It always gets me at the end. Not because it’s romantic, but because of what she gives up. Her voice. Her tail. Everything she is—stripped away for something that was never really hers to begin with.

And in the end?

She dies anyway. I huff out a quiet breath, shaking my head.

Yeah—couldn’t be me.

If I want something, I take it. Keep it. Hold onto it until it’s mine. A little selfish, maybe. A little monstrous. But at least I don’t end up as sea foam.

It would be a waste of a good man like me.

I lean against the window, watching the ocean stretch out below the cliffs. My reflection stares back at me—freckles scattered across my face, blond hair doing whatever the hell it wants. I wink at myself. When I smile, a small dimple appears in my right cheek.

The sea looks calm today. Quiet, the waves rolling in slow, breaking against the rocks below like nothing in the world could ever disturb them. The calm almost feels fake. A storm rolled in not long after I arrived two days ago, so I’ve been stuck indoors ever since. I did a little research in my free time when I got the light. Yeah. The power’s been going out for a few hours at a time since the storm. The wind or maybe a fallen tree must’ve taken out one of the power lines.

So.

It’s been two days.

I was supposed to meet a friend here. Another myth hunter I met online.

He was meant to arrive a week before me.

No calls. No messages. Nothing. That’s not like him.

At least... I don’t think it is.

There are still boxes everywhere. His stuff is here too, left exactly where he must have put it. Like he never got the chance to leave. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t worry me.

I haven’t even started my fieldwork yet—haven’t properly walked through the village, introduced myself, done anything I came here to do. I only drove through it. That was enough to notice something’s... wrong.

The streets are quiet. Too quiet.

Not empty. I’ve seen people around. They just don’t feel present.

And when they look at me—

Yeah.

They know I don’t belong.

Not exactly the warm welcome I’m used to. Back home, people smile first, ask questions later.

Here?

They just stare.

Cold. Measuring.

Like they’re waiting for something.

Or like they already know how this ends.

I push a box off the counter, letting it drop with a dull thud, and grab my coat. My fingers drag through my hair in a half-hearted attempt to fix it.

Pointless. I never win that fight. Whatever.

Time to actually do something.

The cottage practically clings to the cliffs, and the path to the beach runs right along the edge. Whether I’m heading into town or back home, the ocean is always beside me. Might even dip my feet in later. If I don’t freeze to death first.

I walk past the beach, my gaze drifting over the mess the storm left behind. Pieces of wood are scattered across the sand, tangled between clumps of seaweed and other junk washed ashore—old nets, fishing lines, bits of rope.

My friend found this place before I got here and insisted the rental be under my name. It was a little weird, but I figured he just couldn’t be bothered dealing with the booking.

This place is cold. Not unbearable... just enough to settle into your bones and stay there. I’ve heard it’s supposed to be good for you. Sea air and all that.

I’m not complaining.

I’m in decent shape.

Just... slightly obsessed with things that shouldn’t exist.

And no—not aliens.

Not my thing.

Too creepy.

The village is just as quiet up close. Maybe worse. The smell of fish hits me first, thick and unavoidable. I wrinkle my nose, scanning the street.

The old houses look like they’ve seen better days. Moss creeps over the stone walls, gathering in the cracks. Faded blue paint covers some of the doors and window frames, peeling away in places. Old wooden shutters rattle in the wind.

On my way toward the fishing port, I notice an old woman.

I still plan to visit the lighthouse later. Who would know more about the sea than a man who spends his days watching it?

But first—

I stop in my tracks, a wide smile spreading across my face. My charming dimple and all.

The old woman is staring at me.

Of course she is.

Probably the hair. It’s not even that dramatic—just light blond, curly, and currently a complete mess. Add the freckles and warm brown eyes, and apparently I stand out around here.

I give her another smile.

Nothing.

Her gaze doesn’t soften. Doesn’t shift. It just... stays.

Like she’s looking straight through me.

She’s much shorter than me, with grey hair and a wrinkled, stoic face. Her clothes are old but well-kept. Clean. Somehow, for such a tiny old lady, she’s surprisingly intimidating. An apron is tied around her waist, so I assume she’s heading to work somewhere near the fishing port—or coming back from it.

“Morning?” I try.

No reaction.

“I’m looking for some information,” I add, stepping a little closer. “I heard there are mermaids around here.”

She blinks once.

That’s it.

“Ma’am?” Nothing.

“Have you heard anything about—” I slow down without thinking, like maybe she just didn’t understand me. Or maybe she’s hard of hearing. “—mermaids?”

Yeah. Desperate. I know.

She finally moves. Just enough to wave her hand at me like I’m an annoyance. Like a fly she can’t be bothered to swat.

Right.

I stand there for another couple of seconds before finally moving on.

My next target is the lighthouse.

On the way, I pass a few fishermen. Middle-aged men, mostly. Some of them sit near the harbor, fixing their nets after the morning catch, I guess. Or maybe they’re repairing whatever the storm damaged. Who knows? I’m not exactly an expert on fishing.

They aren’t much more welcoming than the old lady.

A few stare. Most ignore me completely. The ones who actually bother to speak make it pretty clear that I’m not welcome here and that I should go back where I came from.

Not a chance.

I finally reach the lighthouse.

A man is working near the entrance. Dark blond hair, a beard that looks like he hasn’t shaved in at least a week, broad shoulders hidden beneath a deep navy jacket and a worn hat.

He looks tired.

A little intimidating, too.

He’s a big guy. Broad enough that I can only guess how much muscle is hiding under all those layers.

I watch him lift a heavy barrel near the lighthouse, then tighten the knots on a thick rope like it’s nothing.

Okay.

Definitely strong.

I walk toward him slowly, putting on my best friendly smile.

“Hello?” It has to be past noon by now.

He looks up.

“Oh, hello.” A warm, deep voice reaches my ears.

Not what I expected.

And he actually replied to me.

Finally. A normal response.

“If I’m not interrupting, can I ask you a few questions?” I put on my most polite voice.

“Questions?” He raises his thick eyebrows. “About?”

“Oh—” I blink.

The question catches me off guard. Maybe because someone in this cold coastal town actually seems willing to answer me.

I clear my throat.

“I’m looking for some information about mermaids. I heard this town is full of legends about them.”

The man stares at me for a little too long.

“There were some stories in the past, I suppose.” He scratches his beard. “A long time ago.”

“Any incidents recently?” I ask, probably a little too quickly. “If I’m not bothering you, I’d love to hear the old stories too. If that’s okay.”

I almost sound excited. Keep it cool, Noah.

“Sure. Come inside. It’s cold out here, and you’re shivering.”

He’s not wrong. I’m still not used to the weather here.

I step out of the lighthouse, waving goodbye to Arthur. That’s the lighthouse keeper’s name.

The sun is much lower than I remember. I pull out my phone and check the time. I stop mid-step and blink at the screen.

Three hours?!

Did I just waste three hours or more of my life?

Don’t get me wrong. Arthur is such a nice and warm fellow. Really. But he talks about the lighthouse.

A lot.

Nothing about my main interest—mermaids.

After all that time, I know more about this lighthouse and how it was built than I ever wanted to know. I even know how to change the… lens? Eyeglass? I don’t know. I already forgot the correct name.

And every time I thought he was finally going to tell me something interesting and actually relevant to mermaids, he changed the subject. Or focused on a completely different part of the story—helping ships find their way home, how important the lighthouse is, how much responsibility comes with the job.

Any questions about the sea or the lighthouse?

Long answers.

Anything else?

Short ones.

So, I guess he isn’t actually that talkative when the lighthouse isn’t involved.

Arthur is a very kind man. Warm, like the lighthouse itself. It’s cozy inside, almost surprisingly small for a big guy like Arthur.

He’s strong as hell, too. I watched him bend a metal rod with his bare hands while showing me how to fix a broken railing at the top of the lighthouse.

Crazy.

Also, he makes the best tea I’ve ever had. I even asked him where he buys it.

But completely useless when it comes to the information I actually wanted.

On my way back toward the center of town, I already have my next stop in mind—the village pub.

Under the Iron Claw.

Who came up with the brilliant idea of naming a pub in a coastal town something that has absolutely nothing to do with the sea?

Anyway.

If there’s one place where people talk, it has to be there. Even if it takes a few drinks.

As I walk, I catch the eye of a smoking teenager. Fourteen, maybe. Blond hair.

And here I thought I was the only blond around here.

Apparently not.

What really catches my attention, though, are the pale patches scattered across his skin. Some of his hair is lighter too, almost white in places.

He stares right back at me and takes another drag from his cigarette.

For a second, neither of us says anything.

Then his eyes move to my hair.

“Mophead!” he yells before taking off, dropping the still-lit cigarette onto the ground behind him.

Great. Even teenagers think my hair looks like a mop.

When I reach the pub, my gaze drifts to the old wooden sign hanging above the door.

A full moon. Dark woods in the background. Three huge claw marks slashed across the whole thing.

Interesting design.

Not exactly what I’d expect from a pub in a seaside town.

I guess the name has something to do with the woods surrounding the town. Who knows what the owner was thinking when he came up with it?

I’ll ask someday.

The old wooden doors look like they’ve seen better days. They’re heavier than I expect, and I have to put some weight into pulling one open.

The smell of old wood and alcohol hangs heavy in the air. Somewhere in the corner, an old radio hums quietly beneath the sound of clinking glass. The pub is warmer than the rest of the town. Dim, quiet, but not in the same suffocating way as outside. Almost... normal.

There are only a couple of people inside.

I spot the bartender immediately.

He looks taller than me, with a lean build and narrow shoulders. Handsome. Very handsome, actually. A straight nose, deep blue eyes, and an easy, charming smile. Two of the small moles scattered across his face catch my attention—one beneath his right eye and another below his lower lip.

He looks more... aware.

Maybe I’ll get something out of this one.

“Beer,” I say, sliding onto a stool.

A glass clinks somewhere behind me.

He looks me over slowly—head to toe.

“ID?”

Of course.

Even in this tiny freezing town, people still ask for my ID. Apparently, my face refuses to age like a normal person. The curse of having a baby face, I guess.

“...Seriously?”

He shrugs.

“You don’t look local.”

I roll my eyes but hand it over anyway.

“Noah,” he says after a second, comparing it to my face.

“Yeah.”

He gives it back. His sleeve shifts as he reaches for a glass, revealing two thick black bands around his arm. There’s a little more definition there than his slender frame suggests.

Interesting.

“So,” I start, leaning forward slightly, “you heard anything about mermaids around here?”

He sets the beer in front of me.

“Mermaids?” he repeats slowly, fingers pausing around the glass for just a second too long.

“There were posts,” I say.

“And?” he asks, wiping down a glass. “That enough for you to start sniffing around?”

I tilt my head. “Yeah?”

“Some might say that’s not very wise.”

He’s watching me now. Really watching.

“You trying to scare me off?” I push up from the stool slightly.

He sets the glass down. Slow.

“You know... people who start asking the wrong questions—”

He leans in just a little. A few dark brown strands fall across his eyes, partially hiding that charming expression from before.

“—tend to disappear.”

I scoff.

“Are you threatening me? It’s not my first rodeo.”

A pause.

“Micah,” he corrects.

I blink.

He smiles.

What?

He stares at me for a beat, something sharp still lingering in his deep blue eyes.

“I’m not threatening you. No one here is going to answer your questions anyway.”

I hesitate.

Then I pull my phone out of my pocket.

“What about this one?”

I turn the screen toward him, showing him a photo of my missing friend. The only one he ever sent me.

He doesn’t look at it right away.

Then, slowly, his gaze drops, ridiculously long lashes lowering over his eyes.

How can a man have eyelashes that long?

He studies the photo a second longer than he should. His brow lifts slightly—his eyes flick back to me.

“Maybe.” He shrugs.

That’s it.

No surprise. No confusion.

Nothing.

Just... maybe.

A chill runs down my spine.

I step outside, the cold air hitting harder than it should.

That pause. The way he looked at the photo.

Yeah.

That wasn’t nothing.

He knew him.

Or at least... he didn’t look surprised.

I glance toward the sea.

Calm. Quiet.

Maybe a walk will help. Clear my head. Figure out my next move.

I consider taking my shoes off.

Yeah. No.

Absolutely not.

It’s freezing.

The sound of the waves helps, though. Always does. The sun sits low over the water, orange light stretching across the surface.

No movement. No shapes. No monsters.

Figures.

No one gets lucky on day one.

As a kid, I used to collect shells. I snort softly.

Okay—yeah. I still kind of do. Just... upgraded.

Now I check beaches after storms.

The sea always gives something back.

And there was a storm a few days ago.

The smell out here is stronger—salt, rot, something faintly metallic underneath. Seaweed tangled everywhere, debris scattered along the shore.

I scan the ground as I walk.

Nothing. Nothing. ...Seaweed.

Great.

Then something catches my eye.

Something... wrong.

Half-buried in the sand.

I slow, frowning.

It looks like jelly. Not quite a jellyfish, though. I passed one earlier.

This is... different.

I grab a stick—I’m not stupid—and crouch a few steps away.

I poke it once. Nothing happens.

Good.

I poke it again. Still nothing.

“...Okay.”

I press harder.

The surface gives, spreading unnaturally across the sand.

Weird. Too weird.

I pause.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Where the hell are the birds?

I glance around.

Still alone.

No monsters.

Shame.

I look back down—

For a second, I think I imagined it.

But I swear it moved. Just slightly.

Something glints beneath the surface.

My grip tightens on the stick.

There’s something inside it.

I push the jelly aside carefully.

Something smooth rolls free.

Round.

Perfect.

A pearl.

I stare at it, frowning.

Something about it feels off.