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Drift and the drowned

Author: R. Mobley
last update Huling Na-update: 2025-05-15 05:07:28

He didn’t remember his name.

But he remembered them—the drowned faces beneath the tide, the hollow eyes that watched him every night from the surf. Not threatening. Not welcoming. Just waiting.

The townsfolk still whispered when they saw him. He stayed in the old weather-beaten shack at the edge of the dunes, brought food to the fishermen when the tide was low, and returned to the sea every evening.

Drift didn’t speak much. But he felt more than ever. Like the water had become a second skin, and something in the depths knew he belonged.

It started small.

One night, while lying in the sand, he pressed his hand into a tide pool—and the water didn’t ripple. It held around his skin like glass. Reflected not his face, but someone else’s.

A girl, floating beneath roots. Eyes closed. Mouth open in silent scream.

Emily.

He didn’t know the name. But the memory clung to him like salt in his throat.

Then came the dreams.

Of pillars in the deep. Of voices speaking a language he never
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