Darkness didn't lift—it peeled back, like a curtain made of tar. I blinked, my vision swimming, and found myself in a room that shouldn't exist.
The walls were curved, made of smooth white porcelain, their surface cold to the touch. No windows, no doors—just a single circular opening at the far end, barred with bone china slats. The air smelled of salt and burned incense, and somewhere nearby, water dripped in a steady, metronomic rhythm.
"Where am I?" I croaked, my voice echoing.
No answer. But the figure who'd brought me here—the "new keeper"—stood in the corner, still cloaked, its face hidden. It held the bone china paperweight, its beads now glowing faintly green.
"You're in the Deep's embrace," it said, its voice a dry rasp. "The only place left where the dry world can't touch us."
I stood, my legs shaking. The floor was porcelain too, veined with silver, like the scales under my nails.
"The others," I said. "Xiao Xu, Ma… what happened to them?"
The figure tilted its head. "The sea reclaims its own. Xiao Xu's family bloodline is ended. Ma's kind? They'll drown in the coming tide. As will all who resist."
It stepped forward, and the hood fell back.
I recoiled.
Its face was porcelain—smooth, featureless, except for two black holes where the eyes should be, oozing tar-like substance. Its mouth was a thin slit, curved upward in a parody of a smile.
"I am the last of the keepers," it said. "For centuries, my line has guarded the Conch. Fed it. Kept the Deep at bay."
"You're the one who left the paperweight in my attic," I said.
It nodded. "You were chosen. The Conch marked you. You're part of it now, just as I am."
It held out the paperweight. "Take it. It's yours."
I hesitated. The last time I'd touched one, it had cost Xiao Xu her life.
"It won't hurt you," the keeper said. "Not yet. The Conch needs a master. And you… you're the only one left who can control it."
I reached out, my fingers brushing the porcelain.
The room shuddered, the floor tilting. The paperweight's beads glowed brighter, and the keeper's face shifted—flickering between porcelain and flesh, as if it couldn't decide which to be.
"Careful," it said, its voice strained. "The Deep senses you. It wants to merge."
The circular opening creaked open, revealing a hallway beyond—also made of porcelain, lined with doors, each marked with a number.
"Come," the keeper said. "I'll show you what you've inherited."
I followed, the paperweight clutched in my hand. The hallway stretched into the distance, its walls covered in carvings—scenes of drownings, of people merging with porcelain, of the mother rising from the depths.
"Each door holds a secret," the keeper said. "The first keeper's diary. The second's experiments. The third's… failures."
We stopped at door 13. The keeper pressed its palm to the porcelain, and the door slid open.
Inside was a lab—a small room, its shelves holding jars of bones, vials of red fluid, and a microscope. A desk held a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed with age.
"Read it," the keeper said. "You need to understand what's at stake."
I flipped open the journal. The first entry was dated 1897, the handwriting precise, almost scholarly.
Day 1. The Conch arrived today. It's smaller than I expected—no larger than a child's fist. But the beads… they click when I'm near. The villagers are afraid. They say it's cursed.
Day 7. I've named it "Echo." It responds to my voice. When I play music, it clicks in rhythm. I think it's trying to communicate.
Day 14. The first sacrifice. A lamb. Echo didn't eat it. Just… absorbed it. The beads glowed. The villagers are right. It is cursed.
Day 21. I've started hearing voices. Whispers, from the sea. They tell me to feed Echo. To let it grow. I think they're coming from the beads.
Day 28. The villagers burned my house. They say I've "wed the deep." I fled, taking Echo with me. Now we live in the lighthouse. It's safer here.
Day 35. I've merged with Echo. My hand is porcelain. The voices are louder. They call me "Keeper."
The entries continued, growing more frantic, the handwriting deteriorating.
Day 42. I can't stop feeding it. Bones, fish, anything. The sea demands it. The villagers are dead. The sea took them. I think Echo did it.
Day 50. I'm losing myself. My face is porcelain. My eyes are gone. But the voices… they're beautiful. They say the Deep will rise. That I'll be its priest.
The last entry was smudged, the ink running as if written in tears.
Day 53. I'm ready. Let the Deep take me. Let it wash away the dry world. I am the first keeper. I am the last.
I closed the journal, my hands shaking.
"The first keeper," the keeper said. "My ancestor. He thought he could control the Conch. He was wrong."
It stepped closer, its porcelain face inches from mine. "You have a choice. Continue his work—feed the Conch, keep the Deep at bay—or let it rise. Let the sea reclaim what's hers."
I thought of Xiao Xu, her skin turning to porcelain. Of the child in the alley, screaming. Of the mother's thousand eyes.
"I choose to stop it," I said.
The keeper laughed—a dry, crackling sound. "Foolish. The Conch can't be stopped. It can only be controlled. And you… you're already part of it."
It pointed to my hand. The silver scales had spread, covering my palm.
"By nightfall, you'll be fully merged. You'll hear the voices. You'll hunger."
It turned, walking back down the hallway. "Think carefully, keeper. The next sacrifice is yours to make."
The door slid shut behind it, leaving me alone with the journal and the Conch's whispers.
From outside, the sea roared—a sound that felt like a promise.