The waves whispered secrets to the shore as the golden sun dipped low on the horizon. Palm trees swayed like silent witnesses, and seagulls circled lazily above the quiet island.
It was meant to be just another family excursion — a luxury yacht tour, a peaceful stopover on a forgotten island.
But then they saw him.
Lying half-buried in wet sand, his shirt torn, his skin pale beneath the sun, and his eyes fluttering with the weight of exhaustion. Salt crusted his lips, and his fingers clutched at nothing — like a man reaching for something that had already slipped away.
"Papa! There's someone here!" the little girl shouted, pointing ahead.
The parents rushed over, kneeling beside him. The father pressed two fingers to his neck.
"He's alive," he said, surprised. "Barely."
The mother looked around, her voice trembling.
"A shipwreck... he must've—he must've washed up here."
His eyelids cracked open for a second. Blurred faces hovered above him. His throat burned too much to speak. His mind still swam in memories of chaos — water crashing, voices screaming, her hand slipping from his…
Then blackness.
When he woke again, he was on the deck of a sleek white yacht. Clean blankets covered him, and the ocean stretched endlessly in all directions. The gentle hum of the engine vibrated through his bones.
He was safe — or at least, rescued.
But inside, something still drowned
The yacht had docked. He'd been brought into the grand sitting hall of the Emeria estate — sleek, white-marble floors and glass walls that reflected too much light… or maybe just too much of the truth he was trying to forget.
He sat quietly at the polished table. A silver tray was brought to him — neatly arranged fruit slices, a bowl of fresh salad, and chilled water beading with condensation.
"Eat slowly," Mrs. Emeria said kindly. "You've been through a lot."
He nodded, gave a faint thank you, and ate. Every bite felt distant — like he wasn't tasting food, but chewing through echoes of the sea, broken memories, the girl he couldn't save.
Then silence.
Everyone stepped away, the room growing still.
His eyes wandered.
Across the counter.
A silver knife.
Without thinking, he stood. His body moved before reason could catch up. One footstep. Then two. The blade felt cold and real in his trembling fingers. His grip tightened as he raised it slightly, eyes blank, chest tightening.
Then...
"What are you trying to do ?" The voice was soft, almost curious, but laced with something else — fear, understanding… and fire.
He froze.
His gaze turned, still gripping the knife, and there she was — standing near the doorway in a flowing silk top and calm eyes that saw far too much.
Aurelia.
The only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Emeria. "Her father, Emerin Vex, serves as the kingdom's chief tech-biologist, while her mother is a highly ranked psychologist."
Known not just for her beauty — soft skin like light, hair kissed by the breeze, eyes that caught your soul — but for her silence. A silence that spoke volumes.
He said nothing.
She stepped forward, slowly. No fear. No judgment.
"Put that down," she said gently. "Whatever you lost... it doesn't end like this."
The knife gleamed in his hand. His eyes stared forward — cold, distant, as if no soul lived behind them. His body swayed slightly, and his lips moved with no sound. Just trembles.
Aurelia paused. Her breath caught in her throat.
"Hey…" she said again, softer now. "Talk to me."
He didn't blink.
His hand twitched, blade lowering just slightly — not from surrender, but confusion. Or so it seemed.
Mrs. Emeria appeared behind Aurelia, shocked. "Put that down, please. You're safe here."
Still no response.
Then suddenly—
He dropped the knife.
Clang.
He collapsed to his knees, hands pressed against his ears like the world was screaming in his head. He let out a shaky, broken noise — somewhere between a sob and a growl.
"He's… he's lost it," Mr. Emeria murmured from the hallway, watching with cautious eyes. "The trauma… poor boy's mind's gone."
They carried him gently to a guest room. Wrapped him in warm blankets. Left the lights dimmed.
Aurelia stayed by the door for a while, arms crossed, watching.
But what she didn't see…
What no one saw…
Was the way his fingers flexed under the sheets.
Or how, once the door closed, his eyes opened fully — no more dazed glaze. Just silence. Cold, calculated silence.
He stared at the ceiling.
Not broken.
Not lost.
Just… waiting.
....
Days passed.
He barely spoke. He wandered the corridors slowly, barefoot, eyes blank — or so they thought. He would sit by the glass window for hours, just watching the rain trace invisible lines across the sky. Sometimes he hummed to himself. Sometimes, he simply stared.
"Do you think he even remembers who he is?" Mrs. Emeria asked her husband one evening.
"I think he remembers too much," Aurelia whispered under her breath.
Because she'd seen it.
The subtle shifts in his body language.
The way he flinched too perfectly at sudden sounds.
The way his eyes lingered too intentionally on knives, doors, maps… as if planning something.
He wasn't broken.
He was pretending.
And that both intrigued her… and terrified her.
One night, well past midnight, Aurelia crept past the main hall with a blanket around her shoulders. The air was cold, laced with moonlight. She froze when she heard the faint creak of movement downstairs.
She tiptoed down.
He was in the kitchen — not pacing, not mumbling — but fully alert. His back was to her. He opened the fridge, took something out.
He didn't see her… until he did.
He turned slowly.
Eyes locked.
No broken boy here.
Just a ghost wearing skin.
"You're not crazy," she said quietly.
He didn't deny it.
He just looked at her… then said softly,
"Neither are you."
Aurelia's breath caught. There was something dangerous in him. Something… shattered but sharp.
But there was something in her too — a reason she stayed up at night thinking about the boy who washed ashore with secrets in his silence.
She took a step closer.
"You faked the madness… why?"
He looked down. His fingers curled around the glass of water he didn't drink.
And said "....."