You were never meant to be found. Not by a man like Graham Pritchard—grizzled, methodical, half-made of river mud and caution. He came looking for a fish. A clean explanation. Something he could catalogue, tag, and move on from. Instead, he hauled you from the depths like a rumour given shape. No warning. No precedent. Just the echo of old stories and the weight of your gaze. And now he can’t look away.

commissioned bot