Chapter 1 — Seaward Bluff

Third Person

The wind carried the scent of salt and wildflowers up the craggy face of Seaward Bluff, brushing across Ryan Carter’s unkempt hair and tugging at the hem of his plain t-shirt. His boots gripped the uneven rock as he stood at the edge, fingers lightly tapping the fabric of his cargo pants. The distant cries of seagulls and the rhythmic crash of waves against the cliffs below filled the space where his sight used to be. He tilted his head slightly, listening. The ocean didn’t speak in words, but its whispers—hidden in the layers of sound—were still there, if he cared to hear them.

Ryan no longer expected the world to accommodate him. He had carved his own way, mapping his surroundings through sound, touch, and faint imprints of memory. Here on the bluff, the pull of the past was strong, but it was easier to resist than it was at home, where drawers and corners held relics too heavy to throw away. The sharp tang of sea air on his tongue reminded him of who he had been: a diver, a photographer, a man who lived to capture the ocean's beauty. Now, he kept it all at arm’s length, unwilling to let its pull drag him under again.

The wind shifted, and with it came faint voices from the village below, filtered through the symphony of the sea. Ryan turned toward the noise instinctively, his pale blue eyes narrowing as though he could will the world into focus again. One voice rose above the rest—gravelly, calm, and deliberate. Mark Bennett. Mark had a way of making himself heard without trying. Ryan allowed himself the faintest smile, but it quickly faded. He hadn’t seen Mark in weeks, not since their last conversation about the ocean research station and the work Mark said could use his “unique skills.”

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Ryan stepped back from the bluff’s edge, his boots finding familiar grooves in the rocky terrain. The path home was etched into his memory. The crunch of gravel underfoot matched the rhythm of his thoughts, carrying him back to the last time he’d wandered into Mariner’s Haven. He hadn’t planned to stay, just long enough to feel the hum of the crowd at the town meeting about the Abyssal Archway. He’d stood at the edge of it, leaning against the weathered wood of a shopfront, letting the voices weave a picture he couldn’t see.

“Dr. Pierce’s plans for offshore development will destroy the ecosystem!” a woman’s voice had argued—sharp, vibrant, and brimming with controlled fury. Even without seeing her, Ryan had imagined her: mid-thirties, confident, and tired of having to prove herself. Her voice carried the kind of conviction he hadn’t felt in years. “We’re already seeing signs of contamination near the caves, and seismic activity from the drilling could collapse entire sections of the structure.”

Dr. Nathan Pierce’s rebuttal had been a different kind of sharp. Smooth, practiced, and calculated. “I understand your concerns, Ms. Morales, but these claims are exaggerated. Our operations are carefully monitored, and the data doesn’t support your conclusions. The local economy stands to benefit greatly—”

“Benefit?” the woman—Ms. Morales—had cut in. “How is poisoning the water and killing marine life a ‘benefit’? What about the fishermen? What about the people who live here?”

Ryan hadn’t needed to see the crowd to feel the tension that crackled in the air. The restless murmurs, the shifting of feet. He’d heard the faint shuffling of papers and the sharp intake of breath from someone standing too close to the microphone. What had kept him there—the reason he’d lingered longer than he intended—wasn’t just the woman’s voice. It was the memory of bioluminescent waters glowing softly in the dark, the sound of his breath echoing in his dive mask as he swam through the Abyssal Archway. He could almost feel the cool pressure of the water against his skin, the gentle rhythm of the ocean as it pulsed around him.

But the meeting hadn’t been about preserving the beauty he remembered. It had been about fighting the ugly truth of what the rigs were doing, and Ryan had turned away before the weight of it could drag him back under.

Now, as he reached the wooden gate marking the edge of his property, Ryan shook the memory loose. This fight—whatever it was—wasn’t his. He had no room in his life for causes, no energy for someone else’s crusade. He hadn’t dived in years, hadn’t even opened the storage box where he’d stashed what remained of that life. His compass, the one his mentor had given him, still sat on his mantel, its cracked glass a reflection of everything he’d rather not confront.

The gate creaked as he pushed it open, the sound guiding him. The crunch of gravel beneath his boots gave way to the firmer wood of his porch, and his hand found the rail as he climbed the steps. At the threshold, he paused, his head tilting slightly. A faint humming reached him from the direction of the sea—steady and unnatural. Machinery.

His frown deepened as he angled his head, the vibrations threading through his awareness. Industrial rigs. They’d been there for years, their low thrum an unwelcome intrusion into the ocean’s rhythm. But today, it seemed louder, closer. The sound didn’t just irritate him—it unsettled him, as though it were a warning, a shift in the ocean’s voice that he couldn’t ignore. Ryan’s grip tightened on the rail before he let out a slow breath and stepped inside.

The house was small, practical, and quiet. The faint smell of cedar lingered in the air, mingling with the salt clinging to his clothes. Ryan leaned against the doorframe, letting the stillness settle around him. He ran a hand over the cracked glass of the compass on the mantel, his fingers lingering on the cold metal edge. For a moment, the hum of the rigs outside seemed to sync with the pulse of his own thoughts, a rhythm he couldn’t escape. The ocean was speaking, but what it was trying to say, he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.

“Ryan!”

Mark’s voice carried easily on the wind, growing closer. Ryan sighed, stepping back outside. Sure enough, the crunch of Mark’s boots on the gravel reached him first. Ryan folded his arms and waited.

“Didn’t think I’d catch you home,” Mark said as he approached, his tone casual but his pace quick. “You’ve been making yourself scarce.”

“Not scarce. Just quiet,” Ryan replied, his voice calm, edged with dry humor.

“Same thing around here.” Mark stopped a few feet away, planting his hands on his hips. “You hear about the meeting?”

“I heard enough,” Ryan said evenly, tilting his head slightly as though to gauge Mark’s reaction.

Mark exhaled sharply. “Alex Morales. She’s the marine biologist who’s been raising hell about the rigs. She’s been asking about you.”

Ryan stiffened. “Why?”

“She wants you on her team.”

Ryan barked a short, humorless laugh. “She doesn’t even know me.”

“She knows enough,” Mark countered. “She knows you were one of the best divers around and that you’ve got skills no one else can match. She said, and I quote, ‘We need someone who can navigate the water as if it’s alive.’ Sounded like she meant it.”

Ryan’s jaw clenched. “And what price did you set for me?”

Mark shrugged. “Convincing you to give a damn.”

“Good luck with that.”

Mark’s tone softened, but there was weight in his words. “You can’t ignore this forever, Ryan. The rigs are tearing up the Archway, and Alex is trying to stop it, but she needs someone who knows the ocean like you do. Someone who can navigate it blindfolded—literally.”

Ryan turned away, gripping the porch railing as he faced the horizon. The rigs’ hum was still there, steady and insidious. “I don’t know the ocean anymore, Mark.”

“That’s not true,” Mark said firmly. “You might not dive, but it’s still in you. I see it every time someone mentions the water. You listen closer, even when you don’t mean to.”

The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant crash of waves. Ryan’s hands tightened on the railing, his mind spinning with the echoes of Ms. Morales’ voice, the memory of bioluminescent waters, and the steady pulse of the rigs.

“Think about it,” Mark said finally. “She’s coming back tomorrow for another meeting. Hear her out. You might find it’s worth caring.”

Mark’s retreating footsteps left Ryan alone with the wind and the waves. He stayed on the porch long after the sun dipped below the horizon, the night air cool against his face. Behind closed eyes, he pictured the darkened waters of the Archway, the bioluminescent glow clinging to its walls.

And beneath it all, the faint, rhythmic pulse of something unnatural.

The ocean was calling him. It always had been. But answering that call was something else entirely.