Maridaz Reed's 18th birthday began like every other morning: half-asleep, slightly late, and wrapped in the smell of sea salt and toast.
She sat at the edge of her bed, blinking against the soft gray light that poured through the curtains. Wavemeet never had real sunrises—just gentle shifts from fog to brighter fog. Her room was quiet except for the sound of gulls outside and the faint creak of the house settling, as if it, too, was just waking up.
Downstairs, the kitchen was warm and familiar. Her mother had already left for the herbal shop, but she'd left a note on the table in her careful, rounded handwriting: Happy Birthday, sweet girl. See you tonight. Don't forget your lunch—Mom.
Next to the note sat a modest breakfast: toast with her favorite blackberry jam, an apple, and a slightly crumpled paper bag with her lunch inside. No wrapped gift, no balloons, no surprises. Just the kind of quiet love she was used to.
Maridaz didn't mind. She liked quiet. She liked routine.
She took a bite of toast, staring out the window at the beach in the distance. It was always there—just beyond the town's edge, calm and glassy. Most people in Wavemeet barely noticed the sea anymore. But Maridaz noticed. Always had.
There was something about it. Something that felt like home, though she had no memory of ever being in the water.
After breakfast, she threw on her oversized hoodie and denim jeans, tied her hair into a messy braid, and headed out the door. The walk to school was short, passing crooked fences, sleepy porches, and a few early-opening shops. Everyone in town knew her by name, and she knew theirs. It was that kind of place.
School was uneventful—almost painfully so. Her best friend, Jamie, greeted her with a lopsided smile and an energy drink, joking about "finally joining the adult world." They sat together in English class, whispered through History, and groaned through a surprise math quiz that neither of them were prepared for.
"Eighteen doesn't feel any different," Maridaz muttered as they walked to the cafeteria.
Jamie grinned. "It never does. Wait till taxes."
Lunchtime was the same as always: a crowded room, cold sandwiches, and half-hearted small talk. The only odd moment was when the new science teacher—Mr. Halden—glanced at Maridaz a little too long while taking attendance. He was new in town, quiet, and seemed harmless. Still, something in his expression made her stomach flutter strangely.
After school, Jamie offered to hang out, but Maridaz politely declined. She had a tradition on her birthday: a quiet walk to the beach, alone. Her parents never questioned it. Maybe they understood.
She kicked off her shoes at the edge of the sand and stepped toward the waves. The sky was overcast, but the water shimmered faintly, catching light that didn't seem to be there. Maridaz didn't notice.
She just stood there, letting the wind whip strands of her hair across her face, letting the salt air fill her lungs. It felt like a memory she couldn't reach.
And then something strange happened.
The water near her feet shifted. Not in a wave—but in a spiral, like it was pulling toward her. She blinked. It stopped.
She shook her head, laughing softly. "Okay, now I'm imagining things."
But then she saw it. Half-buried in the sand, not far from her toes, was a seashell—smooth and pale, but glowing faintly blue around the edges. It looked too perfect to be real. She crouched down and picked it up.
It pulsed in her palm—just once. Then it went still.
Her heart thudded.
She looked around, but the beach was empty. Just her, the sea, and the strange hush of wind that had suddenly stopped blowing.
The moment passed. The breeze returned.
Maridaz slipped the shell into her pocket and started walking home, telling herself it was just a trick of the light. Just another birthday. Just another day.
But behind her, far out in the mist, something moved beneath the surf
ace—something watching, waiting, and remembering.