The coastal town was wrapped in the sound of tides all year round.
Winds swept through rocks and fishing nets, beating out a deep blue echo. Yan Chuan always went out to sea alone and returned alone. His figure swayed in the morning fog, like a fishing hook lodged at the world's edge—silent, steadfast, and never speaking of love.
The first time Lya saw him was at the end of autumn that year.
That day, he was caught in a storm and dragged into the depths of the sea. She was swimming in that area. She saved him.
Not out of kindness, but out of… a stirring she couldn't explain.
He was unconscious. She cradled him, swam through coral and seaweed, and laid him on the reef. She quietly watched as he coughed up seawater and opened his eyes. In that moment, she saw the ocean in his eyes—just like hers.
From that day on, every dusk, she would surface near his boat and watch in silence. She dared not get close, only listened as he hummed, watched him cast his nets, and saw him gently rescue fallen birds and return them to shore.
To her, the human world was strange, fragile—yet gentle.
He had never seen her. But she had given her whole heart to his shadow.
Back beneath the waves, her sisters laughed, saying she was foolish like sea foam. "Humans don't love us. They only hunt us."
She didn't argue. She didn't believe them. She just wanted to see him again.
So, she learned to mimic human language, learned to draw his figure on reef stones with pebbles, and even learned the song he often hummed—quietly, in the dark.
She thought that was enough.
But she didn't understand humans, and she didn't understand that love… could never be satisfied just by looking.
As winter came, the sea wind turned sharper. Still, Lya surfaced each evening to wait by his familiar boat.
She thought it would be enough just to see him from afar.
Until one day, she saw another person on the boat.
A woman.
She wore a deep green cloak, her smile gentle, sitting across from Yan Chuan as she mended his torn fishing net. Their voices were soft but sharp as shells, slicing Lya's heart bit by bit.
She had never heard Yan Chuan speak so much to anyone. Never seen him smile so quietly, so peacefully. Hiding behind the reef, Lya only dared show a sliver of her silver-blue eyes.
It wasn't jealousy. It was the sudden, cruel realization—
She could never be that kind of person.
She had no feet, couldn't walk ashore. She had no name to be introduced, no place in his world.
Lya sank back into the water, her tears swallowed by the sea. The deep held no sound, but her chest ached like it had shattered.
That night, she didn't sing.
The wind went silent. Even the waves softened.
For days after, she no longer approached the boat—only watched from farther reefs. They came more often now. The woman brought him meals, and he gave her small fish in return. They sat together, watching sunsets and stars.
"She seems… wonderful," Lya whispered to the sea.
She looked at her silver-white hair, her scale-covered arms, her translucent tail fin. "If I were human… could I sit beside him too?"
But she wasn't.
She knew she could never be seen, never get close, never make a sound.
Because if a mermaid were discovered, it meant danger. Humans were greedy and afraid. If they knew of her, they would capture or drive her away.
She had heard the elders say: "A mermaid who falls for a human… will die."
That night, Lya thought for a long time, then surfaced in an empty cove and sang that song once more.
Softly—so softly her whole heart shattered with it.
The tide rose. The wind did not rest.
Yan Chuan sat at the bow of his boat, staring at the water. He had heard the singing before.
The first time was on a stormy evening. Alone at sea, before the winds truly rose, he heard a melody from the surface—less like a voice, more like the sea murmuring in a dream.
He thought it was a hallucination. But the tune lingered in his mind for days, even appearing in his dreams—along with a pair of eyes, blue as tides, sad as the night.
He told the woman—Ayin.
She laughed, brushing it off. "Probably dolphins. Or one of those sea spirit legends."
Yan Chuan said nothing. He didn't believe in legends—but he trusted his instincts. And they told him: someone was watching him from the sea.
A strange sensation, like eyes in the wind—gentle, shy, but unwavering. He even started to feel his every movement was being quietly observed.
He tried to follow the sound once, but every time he neared it, it vanished. The sea returned to silence, as if no one had ever been there.
"Who is she?" he wondered. "Why doesn't she show herself?"
He wasn't afraid. In fact, he often hoped—hoped the voice would return. Hoped it could explain the loneliness of this ocean.
And that night, it returned.
Closer than ever.
He held his breath, lowered his net, and rowed forward. By the reef, a flash of silver shimmered in the water, like moonlight fallen into the sea.
"Who's there?" he called.
No answer. Only soft ripples—like a sigh.
"Are you… human? Or…"
He didn't finish.
He saw a pair of eyes—just for a moment—beneath the water, like a dream reflected in a mirror. He froze, and they vanished in fear, retreating to the deep.
Lya fled.
She shouldn't have come so close.
Her heart pounded, her tail trembling. She knew she was exposed.
But she couldn't let go.
He had called for her—it sounded like a plea, like a dream. She closed her eyes. The sea burned like tears.
Curled in the deep, she whispered: "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to scare you."
She only wanted, just once—to be seen, to be called "you."
Ayin sat by the window, watching Yan Chuan patch an old net.
He once said he wasn't superstitious, didn't believe in ghosts, and hated wasting time.
But lately, he stared at the sea for hours, sometimes even sailing out at night.
"What are you looking for?" she finally asked.
He didn't turn around. "There's something out there."
"Fish?"
"No," he said. Then silence.
She noticed something in his eyes—a light she had never seen reflected from herself.
He had always been distant. Maybe still was. But with her, he had once been gentle. If not love, at least trust.
Now, that gentleness was turning cold—like wind brushing past, avoiding the reef.
Ayin gently held his fingers. "Is there someone else?"
Yan Chuan looked up sharply. "Me?"
"You're not looking for fish. Not fixing your boat. You're waiting." She smiled bitterly. "You're waiting for someone from the sea."
Yan Chuan lowered his gaze. Neither confirmed nor denied it.
Ayin sighed, leaning closer. "If it were a person, I'd be jealous. But if it's a dream… I only feel sorry for you."
She truly liked Yan Chuan.
But she knew—humans could only reach so close. If his heart was filled with something unreal, no effort could draw him back.
Lya, hidden behind the reef, heard it all.
She hadn't expected the woman by his side to feel pain because of her.
She hadn't expected… that he remembered her.
She should have been happy—grateful to hold a place in his heart.
But all she felt was pain, splitting her chest wide.
Was her existence… a mistake?
She didn't belong to him. Not to his world. Not to the land. She could only hide, watch, and risk everything just to get close.
"I'm sorry…" she wrote those words with seaweed on the reef, each stroke carved into her heart.
She didn't want to ruin his life.
She only… loved him.
And a mermaid's love… was something that could never be spoken aloud