Morning came quietly.
Not with bells or shouts or the clatter of the harbor—but with light.
Thin fingers of sunrise slipped through the cracks in the wooden shutters, dust motes drifting lazily in their glow. The room warmed inch by inch, as if the day itself was careful not to disturb what slept inside.
Salah stirred, the stiffness of the floor still in his bones. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, then turned his head.
His wife lay beside him, breathing evenly.
That alone would have been miracle enough.
He listened—counted each rise and fall of her chest—until relief settled in his shoulders. Only then did he notice the other sound in the room.
Soft.
Rhythmic.
Like bubbles rising through deep water.
Salah sat up slowly.
"Euryale…?"
The baby lay awake in the small basket near the wall, wrapped in layers of soft cloth. His golden eyes were open, calm and curious, following the slow movement of the sun as if he understood its path. With every breath he took, a faint shimmer pulsed beneath his skin—gentle, steady, alive.
Salah smiled despite himself.
He rose quietly and lifted the child into his arms.
"Good morning, little one," he murmured, brushing a thumb gently across Euryale's warm cheek. "Sleep well?"
The baby answered with a soft sound—not quite a coo, not quite a laugh—and nestled against Salah's chest. His glow dimmed slightly, as if content simply to be held.
Salah felt it again—that deep, soothing calm, like floating atop a quiet sea.
Breakfast passed slowly.
Salah's wife sat near the hearth, her movements careful but no longer fragile. Color had returned to her cheeks over the past few days, and her eyes no longer looked so distant. The healer had come twice already, baffled but pleased.
"I don't know what you've done," the old woman had said, "but keep doing it."
She cooled a small bowl of thin broth and dipped a spoon into it. "Just a little," she said softly, glancing at the baby.
Euryale watched the spoon with quiet interest.
He accepted a few mouthfuls, then turned his head away with a tiny sigh.
Salah chuckled. "That's it? Already full?"
His wife smiled. "Or he knows exactly how much he needs."
She studied the baby for a moment, brushing back a glowing wisp of hair. "He doesn't cry. He doesn't fuss."
"No," Salah said. "But he listens."
She nodded slowly. "It's like he's learning us."
Salah looked at the child in his arms. "Then I hope we're worth learning."
Later, under the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun, Salah set a wooden tub behind the house. He filled it carefully, testing the water with his hand before lowering Euryale inside.
The baby floated effortlessly.
Not struggling. Not sinking.
Just… there.
His tendrils drifted beneath the surface like pale ribbons, glowing softly as they brushed the water. The ripples responded to his movements as if the water itself recognized him.
Salah laughed quietly. "You really are a sea child."
Euryale splashed—just a little—sending droplets sparkling into the light.
"Careful," Salah said with mock seriousness. "You'll flood the whole village."
The baby smiled.
Salah froze.
"Did you just—"
The smile faded into calm curiosity, as if nothing unusual had happened.
Salah shook his head, laughing under his breath. "I'm seeing things."
But he wasn't.
Days slipped by like gentle waves.
In the evenings, Salah carved toys by firelight—small things at first. A fish. A moon. A crude little boat. Euryale would sit in his wife's lap, watching intently.
He never played like other children.
He touched.
Studied.
Sometimes, when Salah wasn't looking closely enough, the toys would lift slightly into the air—hovering just long enough to make his heart skip.
Euryale never reacted.
As if it were normal.
At night, they sang to him.
Old lullabies, broken and imperfect, sung softly so as not to wake the neighbors. Euryale listened, eyes half-lidded, his glow dimming as sleep took him.
On colder nights, they let him sleep between them.
His warmth was gentle, steady, and comforting—like embers that never burned too hot.
Salah's wife often rested her hand over his chest, feeling the faint pulse beneath her fingers.
"Still there," she'd whisper.
"Always," Salah would reply.
One night, long after the house had gone quiet, Salah lay awake.
The stars glittered faintly through the shutters. The sea breeze carried distant waves into the room.
He turned his head, watching Euryale sleep.
"Who are you really?" he whispered. "What kind of life are we meant to give you?"
The baby didn't stir.
But a soft glow bloomed beneath his skin—once. Slow. Steady.
Like a heartbeat answering another.
Salah smiled, eyes stinging.
"It doesn't matter," he whispered. "You're family now."
Outside, the ocean rolled softly against the shore—as if it agreed.