Sela held the brush like it was made for her hand.
It fit perfectly, the worn wooden handle smooth with age but still strong. Tiny symbols were carved into its surface—spirals, waves, and a crescent moon at the tip. She traced them with her thumb, feeling something stir beneath her skin.
A hum.
Not sound.
Memory.
Marina watched her closely, hands folded in her lap. "That brush belonged to Elira," she said softly. "And before her, to those who carried the song."
Luna knelt beside her daughter. "You don't have to use it right away if you're not ready."
Sela looked up, eyes wide but steady. "I think I already am."
Elias exchanged a glance with Luna. He had seen this before—the moment when a gift stopped being something inherited and became something chosen . It was the same look Luna had worn when she first touched the tide pool chamber's water. The same quiet fire that had burned behind Isolde's eyes.
Sela was becoming what came next.
The Rememberers had always passed their legacy forward, each one shaping it differently—through paint, through words, through ritual. But now, the line of memory had shifted again.
Through music.
Through voice.
Through song .
That night, the storm broke over the cliffs.
Rain lashed against the windows as Sela sat alone in the gallery, the silver pendant warm against her chest. She had put on the necklace without hesitation, drawn by something deeper than instinct. It pulsed faintly when she sang—not loudly, just enough for her to feel it.
Like a heartbeat under stone.
She picked up the brush and dipped it into a bowl of seawater mixed with crushed shell powder, just as her mother had once done. The liquid shimmered faintly, reflecting the candlelight in colors that didn't quite belong to the world.
She touched the brush to the canvas.
And began to sing.
At first, only a whisper.
Then louder.
The melody rose from somewhere deep inside her, older than she was, yet completely hers. Notes wove through the air like threads, pulling together fragments of forgotten voices. The room trembled slightly, dust rising from the corners, shadows stretching across the walls.
The painting formed quickly, almost too fast—as if it had been waiting to be born.
A woman stood at the center, arms outstretched, surrounded by light. Not Elira. Not Isolde. Someone else.
A girl with Sela's curls and Marina's eyes.
Her own reflection in a future she hadn't lived yet.
Behind the girl, the sea opened like a door.
And beyond it—something waited.
Something watching .
Sela's voice faltered.
The brush slipped from her fingers.
The candlelight flickered violently, then steadied.
Silence fell.
But it wasn't empty.
It was waiting .
The next morning, the painting was gone.
In its place sat a single sheet of parchment, covered in looping script that none of them recognized.
Until Marina whispered the words aloud.
"When the song remembers, the gate will open. When the past sings, the lost will return."
Luna turned to Elias. "What does that mean?"
He frowned, scanning the lines again. "It sounds like a warning."
Marina's face was pale. "Or a prophecy."
Sela stood quietly beside them, her small hands curled into fists.
"I heard something last night," she said softly. "Not just Elira."
They turned to her.
"What did you hear?" Elias asked gently.
Sela swallowed hard.
"A voice calling my name."
"And what did it say?"
She looked toward the window, where the sea stretched endlessly beyond the cliffs.
"It said… 'Come home.' "