Noah woke to the sound of Pip gnawing on his ukulele.
The little salvager was perched on the foot of the narrow bunk, delicately worrying at a loose tuning peg with the intensity of a jeweler testing gold. Dawn light filtered through the porthole of the tiny rented room above the Siren's Rest, turning the sea outside into molten glass.
"Morning," Noah croaked. "If you're planning to eat that, at least share."
Pip paused, peg between tiny teeth. "Not eating. Reinforcing. Wood's soft. Needs bone inlay for better resonance." It spat the peg into a waiting palm and produced—from where, Noah refused to ask—a sliver of polished shell. "Trade?"
Noah sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The System's ever-present countdown hovered in his peripheral vision: 46 days, 3 hours, 11 minutes. It had ticked down overnight like a judgmental metronome.
"Fine. But if it starts demanding compliments, I'm blaming you."
Pip's grin was all mischief. "Already does. Called it 'Pretty Strummer.' It likes pet names."
Noah groaned and swung his legs over the bunk's edge. The room was barely larger than a confession booth, but it had a view and—more importantly—a door that locked. After last night's open mic, he'd needed both.
A knock sounded. Lira's voice came through the wood. "You alive in there? Kess says breakfast's getting cold, and the tide waits for no one."
"Coming," Noah called. He pulled on yesterday's clothes—still faintly smelling of tavern smoke—and followed Pip out.
Downstairs, the Siren's Rest was quiet in the way only early-morning taverns can be: chairs upside-down on tables, floor sticky, Kess wiping down the bar with the weary devotion of a priestess tending an altar.
Lira sat at a corner table with two bowls of something steaming and a third, smaller bowl that Pip immediately claimed. She pushed one toward Noah as he sat.
"Fish stew. Good for the voice. Also good for not dying of hunger before you accidentally summon a whirlpool."
"Comforting," Noah said, spooning up a bite. It was surprisingly excellent—spicy, salty, with herbs that hummed faintly on the tongue. "So. Lessons?"
Lira nodded. "Basic resonance theory. You've got the instinct for rhythm, which is rare in newcomers. Most landwalkers treat music like a tool. Here, it's conversation. The world listens."
Pip, mouth full, raised a tiny hand. "And sometimes answers back. Loudly."
Noah glanced between them. "Define loudly."
Lira's smile was small and knowing. "Let's start small. Outside."
They ended up on the docks behind the tavern, where the morning bustle hadn't yet begun. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries weaving accidental harmonies with the lapping waves.
Lira unslung her harp and plucked a single, pure note. The air around it shimmered; a pebble on the dock lifted an inch, then settled.
"Intent plus tone," she said. "The note is the question. Your will is the punctuation."
Noah lifted the ukulele—now sporting its suspicious bone inlay—and tried to mimic the note. What came out was closer to a cough.
Nothing happened. The pebble remained stubbornly earthbound.
"Again," Lira said patiently. "Feel the question."
He tried five more times. On the sixth, the pebble twitched.
System: Minor resonance achieved. Harmonic Dominance: 5.8% (incremental gain). Achievement unlocked: Levitated a Rock (Barely). Reward: +1% efficiency on basic levitation cantrips.
Pip clapped tiny hands. "Progress! Next: levitate self. Or kraken. Kraken more fun."
Noah ignored it. "Okay. That's… something."
Lira nodded approval. "Now layer intent. Try making the pebble move sideways."
Hours passed. Sweat beaded on Noah's forehead. The pebble eventually slid three inches to the left, then rolled off the dock entirely.
"Better," Lira said. "You're thinking too hard. Music here isn't force. It's invitation."
Noah lowered the ukulele. "Invitation to what?"
"To everything." She gestured at the sea, the islands, the sky. "The world's lonely. It likes being asked nicely."
Pip, who had been scavenging dropped shells nearby, scampered back with something clutched triumphantly. A small, tarnished silver whistle on a frayed cord.
"Found! Old siren lure. Very persuasive." It offered the whistle to Noah. "Trade for story about landwalker food?"
Noah took it. The whistle was cold, heavy with residual song. When he breathed across it experimentally, a faint, haunting note drifted out—and every gull within fifty yards abruptly wheeled toward him, eyes fixed.
Lira's eyebrows rose. "Careful. That's a calling tone. Strong one."
The gulls descended in a sudden, chattering cloud. Noah yelped and ducked as wings battered his head. Pip cackled from the safety of Lira's shoulder.
System: Unintended resonance event detected. Local wildlife agitated. Harmonic Dominance: 6.3% (accidental). Caution: Gulls achieving 87% flock cohesion. Recommend dispersal melody or immediate retreat.
Noah fumbled for the ukulele and strummed the first calm chord he could think of—a lullaby his mother used to hum. The notes wobbled out, earnest if not elegant.
The gulls hesitated mid-dive. A few banked away. The rest circled once more, confused, then dispersed with disgruntled cries.
Silence returned, broken only by Pip's lingering giggles.
Lira stared at him. "You just apologized to a flock of gulls. With music. And they listened."
Noah's heart was still pounding. "Beginner's luck?"
"No," she said softly. "Beginner's heart. That's rarer."
For a moment, no one spoke. The sea sang its endless, wordless song.
Then the System pinged again, almost apologetic.
System: Social link strengthened — Lira (Mentor/Ally). New option unlocked: Request formal apprenticeship (cost: one favor, TBD). Reminder: 45 days, 19 hours remaining. Suggestion: Practice dispersal melodies. Avoid whistles near avian populations.
Noah looked at Lira. "So. Lunch?"
She laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "Lunch. Then we try something that doesn't involve angry birds."
Pip hopped back to Noah's shoulder, already eyeing the whistle with renewed interest.
As they walked back toward the tavern, Noah caught his reflection in a shop window: disheveled, gull-feather in hair, ukulele slung like a weapon he barely understood.
He looked, for the first time, like someone who might actually belong here.
The thought was equal parts terrifying and comforting.
And somewhere beneath it, quieter still, was the knowledge that belonging never lasted long in his new line of work.
But for now, the stew was warm, the company better, and the next note—whatever it brought—hadn't been played yet.