BAYHAND

Echoes Of The drowned

Sleep did not come easily. Liora dreamed of water lapping at her bed, of voices whispering her name in tones both tender and accusing. She awoke drenched in sweat, her ears still ringing with the cries of the drowned. For a long time she sat in the dark, listening, certain that if she opened her window she would see pale faces drifting in the tide.

The following day, she wandered into the chapel that overlooked the square. Its walls were bare, no icons of saints or gods, only carvings of waves and ships etched into the stone. A priest swept the floor in silence, but when she asked about the sea, his broom clattered to the ground. “Don’t speak of it here,” he rasped, his eyes darting to the door. “We keep our tongues still, lest they hear us.”

“Who?” she pressed, but the priest only shook his head, muttering a prayer under his breath. His hands trembled as he picked up the broom. Liora felt the air grow colder, and for the first time she wondered if the whispers in her dreams had not been dreams at all.

Later, as she walked by the harbor, she thought she heard singing beneath the waves. Not the wind, not the creak of boats, but voices—soft, mournful, rising from the depths. The melody was haunting, familiar in a way she could not explain, as if she had heard it in childhood. She leaned over the edge of the dock, heart pounding, straining to catch the words.

A fisherman yanked her back roughly. “Do you want to join them?” he snapped, his eyes wide with fear. Without waiting for her reply, he shoved her away and stormed off. Liora stood trembling, staring into the water, where bubbles rose and broke the surface—as though something had just slipped away beneath.