It's about family legacies written in keeper's journals, about things in the ocean that call to those we love, and about choosing duty when the world calls you criminal. Elena Marsh knows the truth. They imprisoned her for it.
Eastern Marine Detention Facility, C4*
Bay Sector–7, North Atlantic
03:17 A.M.
"Into Your hands, Lord."
The lights in this place
never turn off. They hum instead—soft,
constant, like an electric tide that refuses to sleep. It's a bitter irony. The
real ocean is still three miles away, and if I press my ear to thiswall,
then I guess.., yeah I can still hear the phantom roar of the evening swells.
I've been here sixteen days. It hasn't been
fun.
Nah!
Last night, they allowed me
to see my father. It was a mercy that felt more like a trial. Even now, I can't
erase the image of his face: exhausted, and wet with the tears he tried so hard
to hide. He held my hand through the glass and, "It's life, Elly. It's still
beautiful, trust me!" Even in that place, he was trying to find a way to anchor
me.
Anyway, you guys know
nothing about me and my journey here in Widow's Point on
the North Atlantic coast. My name is Elena Marsh. Twenty-six years old mechanical engineer.
According to the Marine Protection Authority, I'm thoroughly responsible for "intentional
interference with classified maritime ecosystems, destruction of protected sea
entities, and large-scale ecological disruption."
But according to me?
I saved lives.
They didn't ask me why I
did what I did. They never do. They just catalog the damage and decide which
monsters deserve cages.
The senior inspector sat
across from me, hands folded neatly, uniform crisp enough to make me nauseous. Sara
Holt, that's what they call her. Marine Intelligence. Sharp eyes. Sharper
temper. The kind of woman who believes the ocean is something that can be
mapped, named, and owned.
"You're allowed one final
request," She almost shouted on me. "Before sentencing."
I didn't ask for a
lawyer.
Didn't ask for contact.
Didn't ask for mercy.
"Ma'am, I want to write,"
I stated right away.
She blinked. "Write
what?"
"A book! I want to share my journey—everything—before it ends."
She laughed. I couldn't
quite make out, Why?
"You think anybody out
there gwan care 'bout your life? Me child, don't go swellin' up your head so.
Nobody wants to read de ramblings of a criminal. They don't care 'bout your
journey or whatever nonsense you got to say."
"Forget about me, then,"
I said calmly. "The people who love the sea deserve to know what's really in
it."
Silence stretched.
Somewhere down the corridor, a lady screamed—short, painful, like a drowning
sound.
No one reacted.
Sara leaned back. "Alright.
You get pen and paper. But you gwan be supervised, you hear? Anything
classified, we tek it. One wrong word, one slip of de pen, and de whole thing
finish. You understand?"
I nodded.
And that's how it all began,
basically…
Hey.
Elena here.
I've no idea when this
will be published. I don't know if I'll be alive to read it. Don't know if
you'll believe a single word of what I'm about to tell you. But please, stick
with me.
If you love the sea—
if you've ever stared
into dark water and felt something stare back—
then you need to read
this.
First things first:
I did nothing wrong to
deserve this cage.
I never harmed the ocean.
I never hunted its creatures for profit or glory. I never took more than I
gave.
What I did… was protect
it.
The sea doesn't need
saving from monsters.
It is the monster.
And it's been starving
for a very long time.
They say I destroyed
classified marine life. That I destabilized, so called, "natural balance."
Here's the truth they
don't want written down:
There is no balance.
There is only a line—and
someone has to stand on it.
My family stood on it for
generations.
And now, I stand alone.
"Dat enough, you wutless
criminal!" And without warning, a hard punch came straight on my face.
Knuckles slammed into my
cheekbone, snapping my head sideways. The pen skidded across the table. Paper
tore. Blood flooded my mouth, (metallic).
Inspector Sara stood over
me, breathing hard.
"No names," she said
coldly. "No mythology. No fear-mongering."
She grabbed the pages,
scanning them fast, jaw tightening with every line.
"This is treason," she
hissed.
"No," I said, tasting
blood. "This is a warning."
She tore the papers in
half and walked out.
The door sealed behind
her with a sound like a coffin locking.
That's the reason this
book is fractured.
Elena Marsh wasn't
allowed to narrate her whole journey by herself. So they hired me.
My name is Diana Lee. I
was a writer once, but I've been a literature professor for over twenty years
now. Always wanted to be part of such meaningful work, especially when it
involves the mysteries of marine life. I'm seriously a big fan of it.
I was brought in as a
neutral narrative consultant—officially to "sanitize her language,"
unofficially to make sure what follows sounds like decent stuff to read.
All I would say is, what
you're about to read is the reconstructed account of a woman the authorities
want erased, stitched together from confiscated writings, recorded
interrogations, and fragments Elena was rebel—or reckless—enough to smuggle
through.
Some chapters are hers.
Some are mine.
Pay close attention to
the ones written by her own.
Those are the truths they
couldn't beat out of her.
This is the story of the
ocean—not the way we see it on a map, but the way it sees us.
And once you begin,
understand this:
There are lights meant to
guide ships.
And there are lights
meant to keep something else away.
Not all truths deserve silence. Not all monsters live in fairy tales. This is about duty inherited through blood, secrets kept for centuries, and the woman imprisoned for protecting us all.
Happy
reading!