The sea held its breath in silence. On a night so deep that even starlight dared not reach it, black waves rose and fell, endlessly breaking and vanishing into the dark. The wind blew sharp and cold, and the beach bore no trace of human footsteps. The silence was as heavy as water, and the air was as cold as a breath left unspoken.

  Along the shore, seaweed drifted and tangled in clusters, and pieces of a broken boat lay half-buried in the sand. Strangely, the night air carried not the scent of salt, but the stench of rotting earth and damp decay. Above, on a hill behind the beach, stood a long-abandoned watchpost rising like a ruin into the dark. Somewhere, an old weather vane creaked in the wind, and a battered warning sign, half its words worn away—"No Entry"—stood skewed in the sand, marked by the sea.

  And in that silence, something emerged from the sea.

  The man was barefoot. His soaked clothes clung to him, seawater dripping from the ends of his hair. His movements were slow, and his gaze unfocused, yet he did not wander aimlessly. He neither panted nor shivered. He looked like something that had always belonged to the sea.

  There was an emptiness in his eyes—but within that void, a quiet center pulsed, unshaken. As he walked, water seeped beneath his feet, and the wind tugged now and then at his dark hair.

  A faint light flickered beyond the beach. Shards of broken shells glinted like shattered glass scattered along the shore, and the wind howled low between the rocks.

  The light wavered atop the hill. A worn kerosene lamp. Cox held the lamp in one hand and gripped the handle of a dull axe in the other.

  "Let’s go back. This isn’t just sea wind tonight."

  He glanced at the child beside him, but his granddaughter was staring intently at the beach below. Beyond the sound of waves, between the hush of the wind—she saw something. A shadow. A person who seemed to have walked out of the sea. Too quiet. Too still.

  "Grandpa… down there..."

  Her voice vanished into the wind.

  Cox lifted the lamp higher, narrowing his eyes. The figure stood motionless on the sand, hair dripping, face hidden by the dark. Seawater reached his ankles, his clothing hanging in sodden folds.

  He did not move. He made no sound.

  Cox tightened his grip on the axe. He’d seen drunkards wash ashore before—but this was different. This one was... silent. Too precise. Too present. And yet, curiously hollow.

  His eyes met Cox’s through the dark. And with that look, something else spilled forth—an emotion without voice, a sensation that slipped straight into the mind. For a brief instant, Cox recalled things he hadn’t thought about in years. A forgotten voice. A dead man’s hand. The ruins of a brick house.

  He froze.

  "Who… are you."

  His voice came out low, hoarse. The man did not answer. And for the first time, Cox had a thought that chilled him more than the wind:

  This… might not be a man at all.

  They said nothing more. Cox gave a single nod. The man followed without a word. The path to the cabin was short but steep. The lamp flickered ahead of them, and the girl kept glancing back. The man walked in silence, his footsteps barely making a sound.

  When the door opened, the cabin revealed a worn wooden wardrobe, a dying fireplace, and a bed stuffed with dry grass. Without a word, Cox tossed another log into the hearth and brought the flames back to life.

  "Sleep here. Clothes… I’ll find something from when I was younger."

  He turned his back. The man quietly looked around. Not searching, but observing—as though trying to remember what it meant to be in a place.

  Then the girl stepped in front of him.

  "You… can’t speak?"

  He looked at her. For a moment, the air trembled faintly. His gaze seemed to say something. Not in sound—but in thought.

  (...I can't be heard. But if you speak, I’ll understand.)

  She blinked. But somehow, she wasn’t afraid. She smiled softly.

  "Then… I’ll do the talking."

  From that day, he stayed at the cabin. He didn’t speak. Rarely showed expression. And his eyes held depths untouched by words. Not a stranger, but a stranger kind of presence.

  Stolen story; please report.

  He often stared up at the sky. Sat by the fire, silent, as if listening to something within.

  Now and then—only rarely—he would speak. Words no one could understand.

  "...Nevhar tu anta silve…"

  The voice was low and slow. It sounded like a song from long ago. Or a prayer.

  The girl and the old man could not understand. Yet whenever that voice filled the room, it seemed to quiet everything.

  "Was that a word? A spell?" Roah tilted her head. "I don’t get it. It’s a weird way of talking."

  He said nothing. But his eyes blinked, once, softly.

  Cox still kept watch. He never let his guard down. The axe stayed near the door.

  "You know what he’s saying? 'Cause I don’t understand a word." "I think… he’s just talking to himself." "Talking to yourself ain’t scary. Not making sense is."

  Even so, Roah stayed close to him. And every day, she shared words she knew.

  "This is 'water'. You drink it." "This is 'fire'. It’s hot. Don’t touch it." "‘Thank you’ is when I feel happy."

  He listened for a long time. His eyes seemed closed, but now and then his lips moved slightly. Not mimicking. Not repeating. It was the quiet focus of something absorbing the world.

  Then, days later, he spoke—barely.

  "...Tha…nk… you…"

  Roah gasped. "You said it! 'Thank you', right?"

  He nodded, slow. Roah beamed like she had discovered treasure.

  "You see? Now we can talk!"

  Cox scoffed quietly in the corner. "Words don’t make someone trustworthy."

  Roah didn’t look back. She simply spoke again, facing the man.

  "But learning to speak means you want to stay."

  He began learning more words. His speech was halting, the sounds unfamiliar, but each one was careful. Meant.

  And the quiet cabin began to fill—softly, slowly—with the voices of a girl and the man who once had no name.

  Evening fell, and the wind had grown still. The small cabin’s light glowed gently beyond the glass windows, casting a warm boundary between the quiet inside and the world beyond.

  He sat beside the fireplace. As always, he was silent, eyes fixed on the dancing flames.

  Roah lay on the floor, drawing on a sheet of paper. Trees. A house. And three smiling figures—two she knew well, the third drawn much too large.

  "That’s you," she said, showing him the page. "I drew you. See? It’s good, right?"

  He tilted his head slightly and stared at it for a long time. The drawing was clumsy, but somehow it felt warm.

  "You know," she said, folding the paper, "we all have names. I’m Roah. Grandpa’s Cox."

  "But you… you’re just ‘that man.’ It feels strange."

  He looked at her. Said nothing. But in his eyes, a small ripple stirred.

  "Do you have a name?" she asked.

  He slowly shook his head. Then, very softly, he spoke.

  "...No one… ever said…"

  Roah repeated the words under her breath. No one ever said.

  "Then I’ll give you one."

  She turned to the window, listening to the distant hush of waves. Then she whispered, as if choosing from something only she could hear:

  "Ganyu."

  He lifted his head.

  "That’s your name. I’ll give it to you. Ganyu. Like a stream—quiet, slow, flowing far."

  He nodded slowly, as if understanding. Then he whispered, for the first time:

  "...Gan…yu..."

  The name slipped from his lips into the world.

  Roah smiled. He was no longer just "him."

  The next morning,

  The sea remained quiet. But something had changed.

  There were no gulls. No fishing boats braved the waves. The air hung heavy, the breeze circling behind rocks.

  He stood outside the cabin, staring at the sky for a long time.

  The sun was up, but its light was dim. Mist clung to the air like smoke.

  Cox coughed, thumping his back. "The weather’s gone mad."

  Roah looked up. "Grandpa, are you okay?"

  "My back’s aching. And..."

  He trailed off. "Some days are like this. When something bad’s coming in from the sea."

  The man turned his gaze to the horizon. Far off, clinging to the sea’s edge, a faint outline of mist crept closer. Too faint for most to see—but he felt it.

  At first, no one noticed.

  The sea was too calm. The wind had stilled. Waves whispered instead of crashing. The gulls were gone. Fishermen hesitated. Shops in town closed early. Cox kept coughing.

  The man sat outside the cabin, looking skyward, as though waiting. His silence held a tension. A premonition.

  "It’s too quiet," Roah whispered. "No wind. Even the sea sounds... wrong."

  She cautiously stepped outside. He was already watching the slope below, like someone expecting something long-awaited.

  "Did you have a bad dream?" she asked. He didn’t reply—only nodded, faintly.

  The next day, the shoreline pulled back.

  Some said it was a trick of the tide. Others whispered the sea had grown a hollow.

  The beach stretched unnaturally wide, revealing the worn bones of old piers. And beneath it all, amid the rot and sea-stench, lay something.

  A shape. Bone-like, or metal wreckage—no one could tell.

  He stared at it. With a look tangled in recognition and rejection.

  And then he murmured:

  "...Kada… assen… illa noran…"

  Not a language. Not exactly. More like a memory. Or a forgotten song.

  The sea shuddered.

  Then, the wave came.

  It began without sound.

  A black wall rose beyond the horizon—taller than sky, darker than storm.

  And it crashed toward the village.

  People screamed only after the hill had vanished beneath it.

  Cox ran with Roah in his arms but stumbled.

  The man followed.

  "Take her!" Cox shouted.

  The man caught Roah with one hand and slammed the door shut with the other.

  Water poured in.

  Windows burst. Floors trembled. Walls cracked.

  He held her tightly.

  But something else grabbed her.

  Not water. Not current.

  Will.

  A hand from the deep.

  His eyes widened.

  He reached out to the sea. And spoke—for the first time—in words this world could understand:

  "No...!"

  And Roah was gone.

  When the waters withdrew, only wreckage remained.

  Cox lay unconscious, bloodied.

  The man knelt, staring at the emptiness.

  His eyes closed slowly. His chest trembled.

  And from somewhere deep within him, a cracked, ancient voice spoke:

  (...Magic must end.)

  He inhaled.

  His heart pounded once, hard.

  And something... began to rise from the deepest part of his mind.

  Screams, rubble, the broken village—all blurred.

  But one thought remained clear:

  It must end.

  He opened his eyes.

  They had changed.

  He still did not know who he was.

  But now he had a name.

  And a purpose.

  Even if his memories were still lost in the fog.