Chapter One: The Water Knows Her
Chapter One
The Water Knows Her
SAYLOR
The ocean has always made more sense to me than people do.
People change their minds. They say one thing when they mean another, smile when they are angry, and ask questions they do not actually want answered. The ocean never pretends. Beautiful one moment, violent the next, indifferent to whether anyone understands it.
I have always loved it for that.
I stand at the edge of the water with my sandals dangling from one hand, letting the evening tide wash over my bare feet. The beach has nearly emptied as the sun disappears, leaving streaks of pink and orange across the horizon. A few families remain farther up the shore gathering towels and plastic buckets. An older couple walks near the dunes with their shoes in their hands.
I barely notice them.
My attention stays fixed on the water.
Another small wave rolls toward me, curving around my ankles before sliding back and pulling sand from beneath my feet. I curl my toes into the shifting ground and resist the urge to follow it.
“You are aware that staring at it isn’t technically a hobby, right?”
I glance over my shoulder. Maya stands several yards away with her arms crossed, holding my purse against her chest like she has already accepted we are never leaving.
“I’m not staring at it.”
“You’ve been standing there for fifteen minutes.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You can think without being ankle deep in the Atlantic.”
I turn back toward the horizon. “Maybe you can.”
Maya groans dramatically. “This is exactly how horror movies start.”
That finally makes me smile. “You came with me voluntarily.”
“Because you said you wanted to watch the sunset. The sun has set. We accomplished our mission.”
“Barely.”
“It is literally gone.”
I laugh quietly as another wave reaches me. “Fine. Two more minutes.”
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“This time I mean it.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
Maya keeps talking as the wind grows colder, lifting strands of my hair across my face, but I only half listen. Something has felt different lately, and no matter how many times I tell myself I am imagining it, the feeling only grows stronger.
The ocean has always pulled at me. Even as a child I could spend hours in the water without getting bored. My mother used to joke that I learned to swim before I learned to walk, which is obviously impossible.
At least, I assume it is.
I remember vacations where everyone else eventually complained about salt in their hair, sand between their toes, or the sun burning their shoulders. I was always the one begging for another hour. One more swim. One more walk along the shore. One more night with the window cracked just enough that I could hear the waves in the distance.
My mother used to tell me I would grow out of it.
I never did.
Lately the pull has become almost physical.
Whenever I come close to the shore, a strange pressure settles in the center of my chest, followed by the overwhelming sensation that I am standing beside something alive. Not simply water or waves or movement, but something aware of me in return.
Watching. Waiting.
I have not told Maya that part.
There are some thoughts that sound significantly less ridiculous when they stay inside your own head.
“Saylor.”
I frown.
Maya is still talking behind me, but her voice suddenly seems farther away.
I take a slow step toward the water. Another wave folds over my feet.
“Saylor?”
My head snaps toward her. “What?”
She stares at me. “I said I’m going to the car. Are you coming?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”
“Were you even listening?”
“Mostly.”
“That means no.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Maya narrows her eyes. “A real minute?”
“Yes.”
“I’m starting a timer.”
I laugh as she turns and starts walking toward the parking lot. She raises one hand over her shoulder without looking back.
“One minute, Saylor!”
“Go away.”
The moment I am alone, my smile disappears.
I heard something.
I am certain of it.
Not Maya.
My name.
I turn slowly toward the water.
The beach suddenly seems unnaturally quiet. Even the distant voices near the dunes have faded, and the constant crash of the waves has softened enough that I can hear the water slipping over the sand.
I stand completely still, listening so hard that my own breathing begins to sound too loud.
Nothing happens.
A gull cries somewhere farther down the shore.
I exhale and rub one hand over my arm. “You’re losing your mind.”
A wave breaks several yards from shore.
Apparently Maya is right. I need to leave.
I start turning away.
Saylor.
I freeze so completely that every muscle in my body tightens.
My pulse pounds once, hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
This time there is no mistaking it.
My name came from the water.
I stare into the darkening ocean. “Hello?”
The word sounds absurd the second it leaves my mouth. I nearly laugh at myself, standing alone on a beach talking to the Atlantic like I expect it to answer.
Then something moves beneath the surface.
My amusement disappears.
A shadow passes through the water several yards out, too large and too fast for me to identify before it vanishes beneath another swell.
I take an instinctive step backward.
The logical part of my brain immediately supplies a dozen explanations. A dolphin. A ray. A school of fish distorted by the fading light. Maybe even a shark, though that possibility does absolutely nothing to make me feel better.
Anything makes more sense than a voice calling my name from beneath the ocean.
I take another step back.
Then stop.
The water near my feet ripples.
There is no wave.
I look down.
A thin stream of water winds toward me across the wet sand.
I stare at it, waiting for the tide to pull it backward.
It does not.
Another stream follows. Then another.
They curl around my feet almost delicately, moving against the direction of the retreating tide.
“What the hell?”
I lift one foot.
The water follows.
Every rational part of me tells me to leave, but curiosity keeps me rooted in place. My heart is hammering now, though I cannot decide whether I am frightened or fascinated.
Probably both.
Against every reasonable instinct I possess, I crouch and slowly lower my fingers toward the water.
The moment my fingertips touch the surface, warmth rushes through my hand.
I gasp.
The sensation travels up my arm and settles deep inside my chest. It is not painful. If anything, it feels strangely familiar, like relief after holding tension for too long. Like stepping into a room I have never seen and somehow knowing I have been there before.
The water shivers beneath my fingers.
Then every small current around me goes completely still.
I stop breathing.
The entire shoreline seems to pause with me.
No waves break. No water pulls against the sand.
For one impossible second, the ocean is perfectly still.
Then I jerk my hand away.
The surf crashes against the shore with enough force to send water halfway up my calves. I stumble backward, nearly losing my balance.
“Okay.” My voice comes out less steady than I want it to. “That’s enough beach for today.”
I hurry toward the parking lot before curiosity can overpower common sense again.
Maya is waiting beside the car with an expression that says I am about to receive a lecture.
“What took you so long?”
“Nothing.”
She raises one eyebrow.
I open the passenger door. “Seriously. Nothing.”
“You look weird.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m cold.”
It is not entirely a lie.
I climb into the car and pull the door shut behind me. Maya watches me for another second before getting into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
She does not immediately pull away. “You’ve been acting strange about the ocean lately.”
I look toward her. “What does that mean?”
“It means every time we come here, you disappear into your own head.”
“I like the water.”
“You’ve always liked the water. This is different.”
Her tone is casual, but the observation lands harder than I expect.
I look through the passenger window. The beach is still visible beyond the parking lot, though the ocean has become little more than a dark line beneath the sky.
“Maybe I just needed somewhere quiet.”
Maya studies me for another moment before finally putting the car into drive.
Thankfully, she does not push.
We make it several blocks before she turns the music on, filling the car with something upbeat that I normally would have sung along to. Tonight I barely hear it.
The water moved toward me.
I know how insane that sounds.
Maybe the current shifted. Maybe a wave created the illusion. Maybe I am more tired than I realize and my brain filled in the rest.
Those explanations almost work.
The voice is harder.
I heard my name twice. Clearly enough that I answered.
I lean my head against the cool window and close my eyes.
I need sleep.
That is all.
I have been restless for weeks, waking at strange hours without knowing why. Sometimes I wake convinced I have been dreaming about water, though I can never remember the dream itself.
Only the feeling it leaves behind.
Longing.
I rub a hand over the center of my chest.
That same pressure is there now. Not painful. Just persistent.
Maya takes the road farther inland, and I glance through the rear window as the last glimpse of the ocean disappears behind a row of buildings.
The pressure immediately worsens.
My fingers curl against my thigh. I sit straighter, unsettled by the sudden certainty that every mile between me and the water feels wrong.
Not inconvenient.
Wrong.
As though I am moving in the opposite direction of somewhere I am supposed to be.
I force myself to face forward.
There has to be an explanation.
There is always an explanation.
By two in the morning I have accepted that sleep is not happening.
I lie on my back staring at the ceiling while my phone plays some mindless television show beside me. I stopped following the plot almost an hour ago. Every time I close my eyes I see the beach again, the shadow beneath the surface, the water moving around my feet, the way the entire ocean seemed to stop beneath my hand.
Eventually I sit up and shove the blankets away.
“This is ridiculous.”
My apartment is silent around me as I walk toward the kitchen, rubbing my arms against the chill that has settled over my skin. I fill a glass with water from the refrigerator and take a long drink.
Halfway through, I stop.
The surface of the water inside the glass is moving.
I lower it slowly.
Tiny ripples travel from one side to the other.
My hand is perfectly still.
I stare at the glass until my eyes begin to ache.
The water moves again.
Once. Twice.
Then settles.
I place the glass carefully on the counter.
“Nope.”
A nervous laugh escapes me as I take a step backward. “I am officially done.”
I turn toward my bedroom.
Behind me, the glass cracks.
I spin around.
A thin fracture runs straight down the side. Water spills onto the counter, dripping over the edge and splashing onto the tile.
I do not move.
The stream should spread naturally across the floor.
It does not.
Instead, it begins moving toward me.
My stomach drops.
I take one step backward.
The water follows.
A narrow trail slides across the tile until it stops inches from my bare feet.
For several seconds I simply stare.
Then something whispers through the room.
Soft. Distant. Impossible.
“Saylor.”
My skin erupts in goose bumps.
I should be terrified.
Instead, something deep inside me answers.
Not with words.
With recognition.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk toward the window and look into the darkness beyond the glass.
The ocean is miles away. I cannot see it from here.
Still, I know exactly which direction it is in.
The certainty settles into me as naturally as knowing where my own heartbeat lives.
The pressure inside my chest tightens.
Then the voice comes again.
This time it does not simply say my name.
It is clearer than anything I have heard before, ancient and soft and somehow carried through every drop of water surrounding me.
Come home.
I stare into the darkness.
For the first time in my life, the ocean does not feel like a place I love.
It feels like something that knows me.
Something that has been looking for me.
And somehow, impossibly, it is waiting for me.
