The first time Mira heard the sea sing, she thought it was her imagination. She had been a fisherwoman all her life, raised on the salt-laden breezes and the cries of gulls, and she knew the ocean better than most. But this sound was different, as though something ancient and powerful had awakened from the depths, singing in a language only the sea itself understood.
It was a calm night, the sea as smooth as polished glass. Mira had taken her small boat out alone, hoping to catch a few late fish before dawn. She was drifting, nets set, when she first heard it—a low hum, almost too faint to hear, that grew louder as the night deepened. She stilled her movements, letting the boat glide on its own, and listened. The sound was not like any creature's call. It was too haunting, too mournful. It resonated deep within her, awakening a strange ache in her chest.
"Are you hearing this?" she whispered to the stars, half laughing at herself. But the stars gave no answer, and neither did the sea.
Mira found herself returning to that same spot night after night, long after she'd hauled in her nets. The song was always there, a whisper rising and falling like the tide itself. It would begin faintly, almost as though shy, then build into a mournful melody that reverberated through her bones. Some nights, she thought she heard voices woven into the song, a chorus of whispers speaking of loss, of longing, of lives lost beneath the waves.
One night, unable to resist, she leaned over the side of her boat and dipped her hand into the water. It was colder than usual, almost icy, but she held her hand there, feeling the current slide past her fingers. The song grew louder, swelling as though the sea was pleased by her touch.
"Who are you?" Mira murmured into the darkness.
The waves lapped at her hand, and for a heartbeat, she thought she felt fingers brushing hers, cold and fleeting. She yanked her hand back, heart pounding. She scanned the dark waters, but saw nothing save for the ripples spreading outward from her touch.
The next day, she visited the village elder, an old woman named Edda who had once been a sailor. "Tell me, Edda," Mira said, "have you ever heard… singing? Out at sea?"
Edda gave her a long, searching look before nodding slowly. "You've heard the Songs of the Silent Sea," she said. "Not many hear them. Fewer still understand them."
"What are they?"
Edda closed her eyes, as though the memory was a weight in her mind. "They say that those who die in the sea don't always find peace. Some remain, bound to the water by sorrow or unfinished lives. Their voices sing on the tides, calling for someone to hear them."
"Why would they call to me?" Mira asked, a chill creeping into her spine.
"Perhaps they see in you a kindred spirit," Edda replied, a hint of sadness in her voice. "Or perhaps they need something from you."
Mira didn't know what that meant, but she couldn't shake the feeling that the song wanted her to follow. That night, she set out again, her small boat slipping through the water in silence. She didn't cast her nets this time; instead, she waited, listening. The song rose around her, filling the air with its mournful melody. It was clearer than ever, as if the voices had drawn closer, their words swirling through her mind.
Then she saw it—a faint glow beneath the surface, pulsing softly in time with the song. Mira leaned over the edge of the boat, heart pounding as she stared into the depths. Shapes moved in the water, ghostly figures that seemed to drift just beyond her reach. She thought she saw faces, pale and sad, their eyes hollow with sorrow. They moved as though caught in an eternal dance, swirling around one another in the silent darkness.
"Come," the voices whispered, and this time Mira understood the words.
Without thinking, she reached into the water. Her hand passed through the icy glow, and a shock ran up her arm. It was like touching another world—one where time was slow and dreams bled into reality. She felt herself slipping, her mind blurring, as though the sea was pulling her in.
"Mira," a voice said, clear and strong. She looked up, startled, and saw a figure standing at the bow of her boat. It was a young woman, her hair dark and wet, her clothes tattered as though they'd been worn away by years in the water. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her eyes held a sadness deeper than the ocean itself.
"Who are you?" Mira asked, her voice trembling.
"I was once like you," the woman replied, her voice soft and full of sorrow. "A fisherwoman who heard the sea's call. But I didn't heed the warnings. I followed the song too far, and now I am bound to these waters."
Mira's heart ached for her. "Is there… is there anything I can do to help you?"
The woman smiled, a faint, wistful smile. "There is always a price for freedom," she said. "If you wish to set us free, you must give something of yourself. Something precious."
Mira thought of her life on the shore, her little house by the cliff, her family, her friends. But the weight of the song was in her heart now, binding her to these lost souls as surely as the sea itself. She nodded, a quiet acceptance filling her.
"What must I give?" she asked.
"Your voice," the woman replied. "Once you give it to the sea, you will never speak again. But in return, we will be free. The song will end, and the souls of the lost will finally rest."
Mira hesitated, her hand still in the water, feeling the cold seep into her bones. She thought of all the words she would never say, all the laughter and stories that would go unspoken. But as she looked into the eyes of the woman before her, she knew she could not turn back.
With a deep breath, she whispered her last words. "I give my voice to the sea."