The winter waves of the Joseon coast were unforgiving, yet they carried the child gently. She was a foreign contradiction—a splash of deep, luminous color against the muted greys and browns of the frigid beach. Her small body was still, her breathing shallow, smelling of salt and distant lands.
The only clue to her identity rested heavily on her chest. It was a large, meticulously carved pendant made of a stone so dark it was almost black, polished by time and water. The design was a stylized bird, the Sankofa, its head turned back over its shoulder, forever looking to the past.
The fisher-folk who found her had never seen anyone quite like her. They wrapped her in coarse wool, gave her the name Maya, and raised her under the constant, heavy question mark of her origins.
She was the sea's secret, delivered by a tide that carried her far from home.