Elara, a wisp of a girl with eyes the colour of a stormy sea, lived in a lighthouse perched precariously on the edge of the Whispering Cliffs. Her only companion was her grandfather, a grizzled man whose weathered face held the map of a thousand storms. He taught her the language of the sea – the mournful cry of gulls, the rhythmic crash of waves, the subtle shift in the wind that foretold a tempest.
One day, a storm unlike any Elara had ever seen descended upon the coast. The wind howled like a banshee, tearing at the lighthouse, and the waves, monstrous and frothing, crashed against the rocks below with terrifying force. Grandpa, usually unflappable, felt a tremor of unease. He’d seen many storms, but this one felt… different.
Midst the fury, a faint, rhythmic glow pulsed through the swirling mist. Intrigued, and despite Grandpa’s warnings, Elara climbed to the lantern room. Through the driving rain, she saw it: a small, glowing boat, battling the waves with impossible grace. It was crafted from what looked like polished sea glass, and its sail, a shimmering, opalescent membrane, billowed, defying the wind.
As the boat neared, a figure, shimmering, like the boat, emerged, a woman, her,, hair like spun moonlight, her eyes like twin stars. The woman smiled, a serene, otherworldly smile, and extended a hand, a hand that, as Elara touched it, sent a jolt of warmth through her, a feeling of profound peace.
The woman spoke, her voice a whisper of the sea, “The storm, child, is not of this world. It is a tear from a fallen star. We, the children of the tide, must mend it.”
Elara, without hesitation, stepped onto the luminous boat.