3. 3
three
Sarah
The water brightens with each stroke as I swim upward, but my thoughts are tangled in what just happened.
That rift, it didn’t hurt. No sharp jolt or resistance.
Just . . . energy. My fingertips still tingle, and there’s a subtle pulse behind my ribs, like something unfamiliar is echoing inside me.
I shake off the thought, knowing I’ve been underwater far too long and wrapped up in the mystery a little too much.
Oxygen deprivation makes people feel more peculiar than this, right?
The surface of the water breaks against me, and cool air hits my face with a sudden sharpness that makes me pause.
I blink, momentarily disoriented. For the entire dive, the water had been consistently cold against my wetsuit, each stroke carrying the bite of the ocean’s depths.
I hadn’t even noticed when the cold stopped feeling uncomfortable, when the temperature no longer felt like a burden.
The sea had become a part of me—no longer an issue. Just there.
When the breeze stirs against my skin, its abrupt sharpness stings, as if the air itself has teeth. Something has changed. I don’t know how to explain it, but it feels as though I’ve crossed an invisible threshold without permission.
Anchored nearby, the boat’s outline sharpens in the twilight, and I hoist myself up the side with practiced ease. The muscles in my arms burn slightly from the exertion, but the cold? Gone. Almost like I’m not wet anymore. An odd warmth radiates within me, a flicker of energy I try to ignore.
The familiar sway of the boat beneath me is grounding, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I take a deep breath. The air is warmer than I remember, thick with moisture, and I welcome it.
Leo’s voice rises above the wind. “Took you long enough, Fishy. You plan on swimming some more? Or are we actually going to make it back before the sun’s completely gone?”
I glance at him, trying to force a smile. “Did you miss me?” I ask, keeping my tone light, though the words feel more distant than usual.
Leo grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Sure did. Boat’s just not the same without you swimming circles around us. So, what did you find this time? New sea life to document or new samples to inspect?”
I roll my eyes, but my mind is already a thousand miles away, back under the surface, back in that seaweed room, inspecting that rift.
I step off the boat and onto the dock, the city skyline sprawling ahead of me as the sun dips below the horizon, casting long shadows over the bay.
The familiar hive of activity in downtown San Francisco spills around me, a far cry from the quiet, endless depth of the ocean.
The distant sounds of traffic, voices, and the occasional horn seem almost out of place after the stillness of the water.
The drive back to my penthouse is a blur, a constant shuffle of thoughts that never quite line up fills my time.
Leo’s teasing voice and the inexplicable shift in the water leave me uneasy.
However, nothing feels more comforting than the sight of the sleek, minimalist building that houses my home.
The city never stops moving, but here, in this space, I can catch my breath.
The elevator ride feels too slow, the quiet vibrations of the machinery an unwelcome reminder that I’ve still got far too much on my mind.
When the doors finally open, I step into the soft, muted lighting of my penthouse, a perfect blend of simplicity and quiet elegance.
The open floor plan is clean, almost sparse, with large windows that offer a view of the city’s lights flickering below.
There’s little point in clutter when I’m only here to sleep and recharge for the next dive, the next discovery.
It’s a space built for someone who works more than they stay at home, which suits me just fine.
I toss my keys onto the entryway table, my fingers grazing the icy surface of the polished wood as I make my way toward the kitchen.
My reflection catches in the glass of the fridge, and for a moment, I freeze.
The faint glow of the water still clings to me, and somehow it feels like that glow has settled in my eyes.
Perhaps a glass of water will help. The refreshing liquid slips down my throat, but does little to settle the distress in my stomach.
I take my time preparing a simple dinner, nothing fancy, just something to fill the space between the chaos of the dive and the quiet that comes after.
Grilled salmon and a side of vegetables, half-heartedly seasoned.
It’s more about the routine than the taste.
I eat at the kitchen island; city lights glimmer beyond the tall windows, but I barely notice them.
My thoughts are everywhere, like a train off the rails.
I finish eating and nudge my plate into the sink from where I sit at the island.
After a moment, I finally push myself to my feet and head for the bathroom, my steps soft against the hardwood floor.
The shower calls to me like it always does after a dive—a moment of solitude, a few minutes to wash off the day, and now the lingering sense of something new inside me.
The bathroom is just as sleek and minimal as the rest of my home, with polished stone floors, a glass-walled shower, and an oversized tub that rarely gets used.
I turn on the water, strip off my clothing, and step into the glass enclosure, the soft hiss of water filling my eardrums. My eyes drift shut as the warmth cascades over me, and for a moment, it’s a relief. The heat seeps into my skin, and I feel a sliver of normalcy return.
After a moment of indulgence, I lift my arms to wash my hair, reaching up to lather the shampoo. But as I move, something feels wrong. The water is not falling on me anymore.
A hitched breath escapes me, and my eyes snap open, the back of my neck prickling with an unfamiliar sensation. I blink through the steam and glance up.
The water has split, two perfect arcs on either side of me, missing my naked body entirely. The flow is steady, the pressure strong, but not enveloping me as it was a moment ago.
“What the hell . . .” I murmur under my breath. I step back instinctively, but the stream doesn’t touch me.
I shift to the left. The water moves with me.
Right. Same thing.
A chill runs down my spine, despite the steamy air. I raise a trembling hand higher, and the stream curves in reaction, bending away as if it’s being pushed by an invisible force.
No, it’s something I’m doing. My pulse quickens, air catching in my throat. I blink several times, thinking I am in some kind of nightmare.
This . . . This isn’t possible.
I stare at the space between my skin and the water. It feels impossible—like I’m holding the ocean in the palm of my hand—and I have no idea how.
I jerk my hands down to my sides. The water snaps back to its full flow, splashing onto the tile as if nothing happened, but the sensation of being connected to something deeper lingers, as if the sea isn’t quite done with me yet.
I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my body, tucking it between my breasts to hold it in place—letting the water drip from me without bothering to dry every inch. My focus is fixed on the perplexing experience. The way the water obeyed me, avoided me, like I was more force than flesh.
Staring at the glass doors of the shower, half-expecting the water to rise on its own, to move unnaturally. But it just falls, steady and mundane.
I turn the shower off and exhale slowly as I pad across the bathroom floor. My reflection in the mirror stops me for a beat. Nothing obvious is different, but I feel like I am staring at someone who isn’t entirely human anymore.
I don’t bother drying my hair. I move on autopilot through the motions, brushing my teeth, pulling on a silk nightgown, and switching off the lights.
I finally crawl into bed, the silk sheets soft against my skin.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling.
My body aches but is still. However, my thoughts are not.
And yet . . . sleep finds me quicker than I expect, even with my endless thoughts, but it isn’t restful.
I dream of being underwater, except this time, the water isn’t surrounding me. It’s flowing from me. Pouring from my hands like I am the source. My limbs are weightless, but I don’t float. I stand on the ocean floor.
The world around me is dark—deep sea darkness. Endless. Heavy.
Yet, I see a figure ahead. Shadowed and blurred. More silhouette than man.
I can’t make out his face. The edges of his form waver as if he’s made of ink drifting in water.
Still, I know he’s watching me. I can feel it, like when a ghost invades your home.
Despite the flow of water, I try to move toward him, but my feet stay rooted in place.
The figure lifts a hand, reaching—no, warning.
And then, in a voice that rumbles like distant thunder and carries through the pressure of the deep, he speaks:
“He is coming.”