Hollow Coral

Let me tell you my secret.
I love winter. And I love you.

But there is no winter on Hollow Coral. Only salt, silence, and sun. The sea never sleeps here, and neither do I—not really.

My name was once Captain Rhys Alder. A name people raised tankards to. A name mothers whispered when their sons dreamed of sails and stars.

But that name drowned the night The Larkwing sank.

It was the third night of the storm. The sea rose like a beast, hungry for men and metal. I held the wheel as thunder screamed and the mast snapped like bone. I ordered them below deck. “Tie down, lads. We’ll ride it out.” But the ocean does not bargain. It only takes.

When I opened my eyes, I was here.

Hollow Coral.

A spit of green clawing out of the water like it regrets being born. There are caves lined with moss and birds that speak in whistles. And silence—endless, bruising silence.

At first, I built a fire each night, hoping a ship would see the smoke. I counted days on a driftwood log. But after the first year, I stopped counting. After the second, I stopped hoping. The sea doesn’t return what it steals.

So I became something else.

The scavenger.

I walk the shoreline after every storm. The sea still throws things at me—bottles, boots, the occasional rotted crate. Once, a gold ring tangled in seaweed. I talk to the things I find. Pretend they’re crew.

Last week, I found a cracked compass. Useless. But I held it anyway. Whispered, “North’s no use here, old girl.”

I know this island better than I knew the back of my own ship. Every crevice. Every odd coral hollow that sings when the tide rolls in.

There’s one cave I favor. It overlooks the sea, high up a mossy ledge. A yellow bird nests nearby—only one of its kind here. It sings every dawn, just once. Like it's remembering something. Or someone.

I tell myself I’m waiting for someone too.

Maybe it’s a lie.

Or maybe it’s you.

I imagine you often. The face changes. Sometimes you wear a naval coat like mine, sometimes a summer dress I’ve never seen. But your eyes—they’re always winter. Cold, clear, and kind.

You sit beside me on the ledge. You bring warmth without fire. You listen.

I tell you my secret.

And you never laugh.

Today, the bird didn’t sing. A strange quiet settled, like the island was holding its breath.

Then I saw it—on the horizon.

A sail.

Small, distant, trembling in the wind. Not imagined. Real.

The sea, it seems, remembers after all.

I should be excited. I should light a fire.

But I just sit here. Watching.

Because I’m not sure anymore.

Is rescue what I want? Or have I become part of Hollow Coral?

I touch the compass.

Let me tell you my secret.

I love winter.
And I loved you—whoever you were.
But the sea loved me more.

And it never lets go.

Would you like to turn this into a longer story or explore the shipwreck’s backstory next?