The dream always began in silence.
Not peaceful silence—not the stillness of a quiet room—but a heavy, humming void, like the world had been emptied of sound except for the pulse of the deep.
Jovelle stood on the edge of a blackened shore.
Not a real shore.
Not one she could name or place.
This one felt carved from memory— someone else's memory, passed down like inherited scars.
The sky above her was an endless expanse of starless night, lit only by the faint phosphorescent glow that breathed up from the water. The sea wasn't the blue she knew from pictures or vacations. It was darker—oily, shifting, alive. The waves rolled in with unnatural rhythm, not following wind or tide, but something beneath them. Something old.
The sand under her feet was cold, too cold, as if it had never been warmed by a sun. Her white nightdress clung to her legs, the hem whispering against her ankles each time a breeze she couldn't feel drifted past.
In front of her was the silhouette of a woman.
Tall. Thin. Completely still. Her bare feet sank slightly into the wet sand as she stared out toward the horizon. Her long hair flowed down her back like liquid darkness, strands drifting as if underwater though the air around them was still. Her dress shimmered faintly, glowing with pale light that made her look carved out of moonwater.
Every time Jovelle saw her, every night for months now, she felt an ache in her chest—something between yearning and dread. A familiarity she could not name. A fear she could not explain.
And the worst part?
She could never see the woman's face.
Not even when she leaned forward.
Not even when she tried to circle around.
Her vision would blur, warp, or twist away every time she tried to glimpse it.
Tonight, the dream felt sharper.
Heavier.
Hungrier.
The woman's voice came gently, yet it vibrated through the air like a submerged bell.
"Come." The word rippled outward, and the ocean responded—waves rising slightly as if bowing to her.
Jovelle's feet moved without permission, stepping forward. Each footfall felt distant, like she was floating rather than walking. The cold of the sand seeped deeper into her, climbing her legs, sinking into her bones.
Her lips parted in silent question, but no words came out.
The woman walked slowly toward the surf. Her movement was not human—she glided, as if the sea reached up and pulled her along.
When the first wave touched her toes, it curled around her ankles like welcoming hands.
Jovelle's heart thudded painfully.
She didn't want to follow.
But she didn't stop, either.
Her feet met the water, and instantly the temperature shifted—from icy air to shocking warmth. The water felt like a heartbeat. Like a living thing.
A shiver ran up her spine.
"Why do you call me?" Jovelle managed to whisper.
The woman didn't turn. Her voice came again, layered—her tone on top and something deeper beneath it, like a second voice hiding within the first. "It is time."
The words thrummed in Jovelle's chest.
The same phrase.
Every night.
Always at the same moment.
"Time for what?" she whispered.
The woman stepped deeper. The water reached her knees, then her waist. Her long hair floated behind her as though the sea were brushing its fingers through the strands.
"It is time," the voice repeated.
Jovelle's feet slid forward uncontrollably. Panic sparked in her chest.
"Stop—stop—" she gasped.
But her body kept moving.
The water rose.
Her dress grew heavy.
Her heartbeat slowed. Shapes moved beneath the surface— vast, slow shadows. Larger than anything she'd seen in waking life. Ancient. Patient.
Jovelle tried again to see the woman's face.
Just a glimpse.
Just anything.
She leaned forward—
The dream shattered like glass.
Black water surged up around her, swallowing the sky, swallowing the woman, swallowing Jovelle whole. She sank without sinking, her limbs frozen, her lungs burning, the ocean folding her into its depths like it had been waiting centuries to do it.
A roar echoed through the water—deep, throbbing, alive.
A heartbeat.
Not hers.
The darkness tightened around her.
A voice—not the woman's this time—spoke from everywhere at once, thick as currents, old as the world.
Come home.
Jovelle's scream tore the dream apart.
She shot upright in bed with a gasp, her lungs aching, her nightshirt clinging to her skin with sweat. Her blankets were tangled around her legs, twisted into a suffocating knot. For a moment she didn't know where she was—whether she was in her dorm room at Princeton or drowning in the dream again.
Her vision cleared gradually, the familiar outlines of her small, tidy room materializing.
Books stacked in uneven towers on her desk.
A tangle of chargers.
Her Princeton sweatshirt draped over the chair.
The old carved wooden box her mother gave her sitting on the windowsill, the symbols etched into it older than any written language she knew.
She pressed a shaky hand to her chest.
"Just a dream," she whispered.
But it didn't feel like "just a dream."
It felt like a warning.
She closed her eyes and breathed in.
She smelled salt.
A sudden knock on her door startled her. "Jovelle? You awake?"
Her roommate's voice—Bea, cheerful even at seven in the morning.
"Yeah," Jovelle called weakly, pushing her hair out of her face. "Yeah, I'm up."
"You sure? You sound like you saw a ghost."
"Just a bad dream."
"Geez, again? Girl, you need tea or therapy or something." Bea laughed. "Anyway, hurry up—we gotta leave early. Dr. Halstein moved the Marine Biology lecture to eight."
Jovelle groaned. "Please tell me you're lying."
"Nope! So get your supernatural ass moving."
Jovelle snorted. "I'm not supernatural."
"Sure you're not." Bea's voice was teasing but affectionate. "But your grandma said your family used to 'speak to the tides,' so like… I'm watching you."
"That was metaphorical storytelling," Jovelle said automatically— she'd said it a hundred times.
Bea left, footsteps fading down the hall.
Jovelle sank back on her pillow for a long moment. She knew her family's stories.
She knew the ancestry myths her mother whispered at night—the tales of deep-sea guardians, of bloodlines tied to the ocean's ancient breathing.
But that was culture.
Folklore.
Heritage.
Not reality.
Her family had come from a small West African coastal community with strong oral traditions. The stories were symbolic, her mother always said.
Beautiful.
Meaningful.
But not literal.
They weren't mermaids.
They weren't sea-creatures.
They weren't supernatural.
And Jovelle definitely wasn't.
She shook out the last of the fear and forced herself out of bed. The morning routine grounded her—shower, braid her hair, moisturize, slip into jeans and a soft sweater. She grabbed her backpack and headed out the door.
The hallway buzzed with the usual student noise—someone arguing on the phone, someone else blasting music, a guy sprinting past holding a half-eaten bagel. Normal.
Predictable.
Safe.
Nothing like the dream.
Outside, the crisp New Jersey air bit at her skin. Students hurried across campus wrapped in jackets and scarves. The trees lining Nassau Street had turned gold and red, shedding leaves that stuck to people's shoes. Cars honked. Someone yelled across the street. A group of girls laughed loudly near the coffee cart.
The world was alive.
And human.
Jovelle exhaled in relief.
Bea crossed the quad to meet her, her curly hair puffed by the damp wind, her oversized sunglasses hiding half her face.
"Morning, sea princess," she teased.
"I will drown you."
"You can't drown me if you're the one who belongs to the water."
"I don't belong to anything except overdue assignments." Bea cackled and linked arms with her. "Come on. Maybe Halstein will forget to take attendance."
He didn't.
He never did.
The Marine Biology lecture hall was massive, the kind with long rows of wooden seats and an echo that made even whispers sound dramatic. Dr. Halstein paced at the front, pointing a plastic crab at the slides like it was a laser pointer.
"Today," he announced, "we're discussing deep-sea ecosystems— specifically abyssal and hadal zones."
Jovelle stiffened automatically.
Hadal.
The deepest trenches.
The ones from her dreams.
Her fingers curled around her pen.
Halstein clicked to a slide showing the crushing blackness miles below the surface.
"The creatures living here," he said, "are uniquely evolved. Strange. Ancient. Some still unknown to us."
Her stomach sank.
Unknown.
Ancient.
Calling.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
It's just coincidence.
Just a topic.
Just a class.
She used the familiar grounding technique her mother taught her when she was little and afraid to sleep: count objects.
One… the clock.
Two… the map.
Three… the faded poster of Darwin.
Four… Halstein's stupid crab.
Five… Bea doodling in her notebook.
She breathed.
Normal.
Normal.
Normal.
Except the back of her neck tingled. Except something deep inside her chest felt like it was waking up.
The rest of the lecture passed in a blur. Afterward, she and Bea moved through the campus rhythm—grabbing lunch, complaining about assignments, shivering whenever the wind blasted through the courtyard.
By mid-afternoon, Jovelle almost forgot the dream.
Almost.
Until she passed the fountain near the library.
The water splashed lazily, sunlight catching the spray.
And for a heartbeat—
just one—
the sound of the fountain warped into the hum from her dream.
That deep, thrumming voice.
Her breath caught.
But then the regular splashing returned, and the world snapped back into place.
Jovelle forced a laugh.
"I'm really losing it," she muttered.
She reached into her bag, pulling out earbuds, ready to drown out her thoughts with music.
But her fingers brushed the wooden box instead.
Her grandmother's box.
Her grandmother—the one who spoke of the deep with reverence. The one who'd touched Jovelle's cheek the night before she left for Princeton and said:
"The sea remembers its own."
Jovelle swallowed hard.
"No," she whispered. "It's just a dream. Just a family story."
Just a coincidence.
Just… everything except what it felt like.
She tucked the box deeper into her bag and headed home.
Her night ended with assignments, tea, a call from her mother reminding her to sleep, and a determination not to think about water again.
At least until the moment she drifted into sleep—
And found herself once more standing on that blackened shore.
The woman waiting.
The sea breathing.
The voice whispering from the deep:
It is time.