The rain had started as a whisper.
A light drizzle tapping against the roof, harmless. Familiar.
But now… it was growing.
Each drop hit harder, heavier—like the island itself was holding its breath. The sky hung low and gray, thick with the weight of an approaching storm.
The palm trees lining the street swayed restlessly, their long leaves shivering under the wind's growing bite. The air had changed too; the easy warmth of the morning was gone, replaced by something sharp, cold, and tense.
Estobaner stood just outside the porch, his jacket clinging damp against his shoulders, his hair sticking in messy strands against his forehead.
He could hear the waves in the distance—rougher now. Not singing. Warning.
The news hadn't been wrong.
The storm was coming.
For a while, Estobaner just stood there, watching the street blur into streaks of silver and gray.
The rain came harder, pelting the tin roof in restless rhythm.
He'd wanted answers—but maybe today wasn't the day to chase ghosts. Not in this weather.
He sighed, running a hand through his wet hair.
"Maybe tomorrow…" he muttered to himself, half-hearted, turning back toward the porch.
That's when he saw it.
At first, he thought it was just a trick of the rain—light bending wrong through the downpour. But no. It was there—a flicker of movement just beyond the road, near the edge of the trees.
Something pale against the dark.
Human-shaped. Still.
He blinked hard, rain stinging his eyes. The figure didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just stood there, half-veiled by the curtain of water, facing his direction.
A pulse of cold shot through his chest.
"...Mom?"
The word slipped out before he could stop it, barely a whisper, lost in the storm's roar.
But the figure didn't answer.
Then lightning flashed—white and brutal—and for that single heartbeat, he saw it clearly.
A person.
Standing where no one should be.
Eyes reflecting the light, too bright, too still.
And then—darkness again.
The rain swallowed everything.
Estobaner blinked hard, the afterimage of the flash still burning in his vision.
Nothing. Just rain.
But his pulse was already racing.
He stepped off the porch again, the mud soft beneath his bare feet. "Hello?" he called out, voice half-lost to the wind. "Hey—who's there?"
No answer. Only the low hiss of the downpour and the ocean's distant growl.
He took another step forward, squinting through the sheets of rain. The trees at the edge of the road swayed like shadows breathing. Something pale flickered between them again—just for a second, just enough.
He didn't think. He moved.
His heart thudded against his ribs as he splashed down the road, water slapping against his legs. The world narrowed to gray and white and sound—the storm roaring all around him, his breath loud in his ears.
"Wait!"
He reached the tree line, branches whipping against his arms. The figure was gone. Only the scent of wet leaves and salt remained, the forest darker than it should've been.
Estobaner stood there, chest heaving, soaked to the bone. His breath came in uneven bursts, steam rising faintly in the chill air.
For a moment, he almost laughed—half from nerves, half from disbelief. Maybe he hadn't seen anything. Maybe it was just the storm playing tricks.
But then—
A sound.
Not a shuffle this time—more like a whisper, carried by the wind.
He turned toward it, and that's when he noticed the fog.
It was rolling in fast.
Thick. Low. Alive.
The rain had softened to a mist, but the world around him was vanishing—trees fading into pale shapes, the road melting into gray. Even the sound of the waves grew muffled, distant, as if swallowed by something unseen.
Estobaner's pulse quickened. He should've gone back. He knew that. But something in the fog was moving—slowly, just ahead. A shadow, gliding between the trunks.
He stepped forward. Then again.
The air grew heavier with each breath. His hair clung to his forehead, his clothes cold and heavy. He could barely see his hands anymore.
"Hello?" His voice cracked the silence but died a few feet away, swallowed by the fog.
Then he heard it—beneath the mist, beneath the whisper of the wind—a faint rhythm.
Waves.
He blinked, realizing his feet were no longer on the road.
The grass had turned to sand.
The sound of the surf was right there, close and hungry.
The fog thinned just enough for him to see the outline of the ocean—dark, restless, endless. It pulled at him like a memory, like the world was trying to repeat itself.
He stood at the edge, breath shallow, rain dripping from his lashes.
The sea was different tonight.
Not roaring. Not calm.
Just waiting.
He couldn't move.
The fog wrapped around him like a living thing—cold, damp, heavy with the scent of salt and decay. His pulse thudded in his ears, too loud, too real. The waves ahead shifted and broke in slow motion, like the sea itself was breathing.
Then came the flashes.
Not of lightning—of memory.
His mother's voice.
Her laugh caught in the wind.
The sun glinting off her blonde hair as she turned to wave.
Then—the scream.
The water rising.
The world collapsing into white noise.
Estobaner stumbled backward, clutching at his chest as the memories crashed through him. The fog pulsed, thicker now, almost glowing with the rhythm of the surf. The sound of waves filled his head until he couldn't tell if it was memory or now.
He blinked, and the world tilted.
The shore was gone.
He looked down—sand giving way beneath his feet, cold water rushing up his legs. The ocean was swallowing him, slow but sure.
"No—" he tried to move, but his limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. His heart hammered as the tide rose higher, gripping his waist, his chest—pulling him toward the deep.
The fog roared with the sound of waves and wind and something else—something alive.
For one breathless instant, he thought he saw her.
His mother. Standing just beyond the mist.
Her hair drifting like seaweed, her hand reaching out.
"Mom—"
The word broke apart as the next wave crashed over him, cold and endless.
The sea closed around his body, pulling him down—into darkness, into silence.
Time didn't move underwater.
At least, not the way it should.
The moment Estobaner sank beneath the surface, everything slowed—the sound of the storm above faded into a distant hum, muffled and unreal. The salt burned his throat, his chest screamed for air, but the pain came in waves—slow, rhythmic, almost peaceful.
Light shimmered above him, rippling like liquid glass. He reached toward it, but it only drifted farther away.
Was he still sinking?
Or had the world itself turned upside down?
Shapes moved in the blur around him—dark silhouettes, twisting and fading just before he could focus. A flicker of color. A ripple like a face. Then another—her face.
His mother's eyes.
Blue as the ocean.
He tried to reach for her. The current caught his arm, pulling it back like invisible fingers. His lungs burned, but the fear didn't come. Only… stillness.
The water was endless.
And in that endlessness, he couldn't tell how long he drifted.
Minutes.
Hours.
Or months.
Thoughts began to crumble—memories scattering like shells in the current. Home, Meowth, Grandma's voice… all slipping away, one by one.
Then—something shifted.
A vibration through the deep.
A pulse, steady and human.
A hand.
It reached through the blur—real, warm, alive.
Fingers locked around his wrist, pulling hard. The world snapped back in a rush of motion and sound. The storm's roar thundered overhead as his head broke through the surface—air slamming back into his lungs like fire.
He gasped, choking on rain and seawater, blinking through the chaos.
The sky above was a wild smear of gray and lightning. Waves crashed against one another, lifting him and the figure beside him—someone pulling him toward the distant shoreline.
He couldn't see their face.
Just the faint outline of their arm, gloved, trembling under the strain.
"Hold on!" a voice shouted through the wind—muffled but real.
Estobaner tried to answer, but all he managed was a weak cough before another wave struck.
The sea swallowed the rest of his words.
Rain. Thunder. A voice calling his name—though he couldn't tell if it was real.
Salt burned his throat. Something pressed against his mouth—rhythmic, firm. His chest lurched, pain blooming with every push.
A cough. Then another.
Water erupted from his lungs, spilling down his cheek. The world spun—the deck beneath him slick and rocking, lights strobing red through the storm haze.
"Hey—hey, breathe!"
A woman's voice, steady but strained.
He blinked, the rain blurring her outline. A figure leaned over him—orange rescue suit clinging to her arms, helmet visor spattered with rain. Her face came into focus only for a second: lines of exhaustion, eyes sharp and focused, hair plastered to her jaw. Older. Experienced. The kind of calm that came from years of storms.
His mouth tingled—numb, foreign. He realized what had just happened.
She exhaled hard, relief flickering through her expression. "You're lucky we found you," she said, pressing a hand to his shoulder to keep him from sitting up. "You almost went under for good."
The boat pitched. Sirens howled faintly from the shore.
He stared past her, dazed—the storm still roaring, the sea swallowing what was left of the night.