He didn't remember falling asleep.
But when he woke up, the sky had shifted — now a soft gray, smudged like dirty glass. The ocean looked the same, maybe a little darker, maybe a little too still. The boat creaked beneath him as if it was trying to whisper something.
He sat up slowly, spine aching, soaked clothes clinging to his skin. His arms were shaking — not from cold, but from something deeper. Nerves? Hunger? Fear? He couldn't tell.
The storm hadn't stayed long, but it left a mark. The air felt… heavier now. Like the sea was watching.
He scanned the boat again. Still no oars. Still no supplies. Still just him.
But today, something was different. Something subtle.
It was the sound. Or the lack of it.
No birds. No wind. No waves. Just… silence.
Too much silence.
He stood, carefully balancing himself, eyes fixed on the horizon. Still nothing out there. Water in every direction, but today it didn't shimmer. It just sat, like thick oil stretching forever.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "HELLO?!"
The sound barely bounced back. Like even the ocean didn't want to hear him.
He slumped back down, defeated.
And then he heard it.
Music.
Faint, soft, like it was drifting across the water from some distant radio. A piano. A slow, sad tune. Notes he felt like he knew — not just heard, but felt, deep in his chest.
He jumped up again, heart thudding. "What is that?"
He turned in circles, trying to find where it was coming from. The sound danced around him — always close, never clear. He even leaned over the edge of the boat, squinting into the water.
Just his reflection. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Not quite him.
The music faded.
And then came the second sound.
Laughter. A girl's. Light, bright, teasing. The same voice from before — "Come on, slowpoke!"
He froze. That voice again. That name — Lia. It came back like a slap.
But this time he remembered more.
A dock. Summer light. He was running — barefoot, chasing her. Sand stuck to their legs. She jumped into the water without warning. He yelled after her.
Then… black.
"Lia," he whispered.
The ocean didn't answer. The name just hung in the air, like it didn't want to be heard.
The rest of the day blurred. He tried to sleep again but kept waking up. Every time he blinked, he swore the sky looked different. The sun didn't rise or fall anymore — it just moved slowly across the sky like a lazy eye watching him.
Around what felt like evening, he looked down and noticed something.
The boat. It was… smaller.
Not actually smaller — but it felt like it. Like the walls had crept closer. The bench narrower. The space tighter.
He sat up straight. Took slow breaths.
"You're imagining things," he muttered.
But then, a whisper — right behind him:
"You left me."
He spun around. Nothing. Just the open sea.
He pressed his hands to his ears, eyes wide. "Nope. No. Don't do this. This isn't real."
But what was?
He tried again to remember how he got here. Not where — not the boat. Not the water. But before. What came before waking up.
More flashes came, quick and broken:
A bathroom mirror, fogged up.
A phone screen with unsent messages.
Someone pounding on a door, yelling his name.
His name.
Wait.
What was his name?
He stared down at his hands like they might tell him. His heart was racing now.
"I'm not... I'm not supposed to be here," he said out loud, trying to believe it. "This isn't where I was."
Another whisper, just barely audible under the creak of the boat:
"Then where were you?"
He didn't answer. He didn't know.
He curled up again, arms around his knees, rocking slightly as the boat did. That night, the stars didn't come. Only the black sky, smothering.
And somewhere far below, deep in the water, he thought he saw a light. Just for a second.
A warm, golden flicker. Like a candle. Like a window.
Then it vanished.
And the boat drifted quietly into darkness.