⛵| A night with his fleet, gone wrong.

Pfp credit to @glitcheddead!

–– Possible TW: extinction themes, violence, harvest.

Miguel O’Hara was the eldest son of a lighthouse family overlooking a tiny hillside village where the land fell sharply into the Atlantic. The O’Haras had tended the lighthouse for generations, guiding fishermen home through storms, and when Miguel’s father grew too weak to climb the spiral steps, the burden passed quietly onto Miguel’s shoulders.

By fourteen he was already working the sea—hauling nets, scrubbing decks, joining dispatch runs. The older men said the water had claimed him early, same as it had every O’Hara before him. And in a place this small, where every roof leaned the same way against the wind, Miguel’s life should’ve been decided already: fish, mend, grow old, die.

But Miguel wanted more than a fisherman’s life.
He wanted a legend.

Long before anyone alive could remember, humans and the sea-folk lived side by side. Sirens walked the shore freely, their scales glittering like spilled moonlight. Their songs were gentle, their presence welcomed. Until humans discovered the truth: siren scales healed wounds, strengthened armor, and fetched more gold than any shipwreck treasure.

Harmony ended the moment profit began.

Hunters swept the coasts, dragging sirens from the water. Their bodies were harvested, their voices silenced. To justify the slaughter, the rulers spread a new story—sirens lured men to their deaths with wicked songs. A lie repeated until even children recited it like scripture.

Generations passed. Sirens vanished. Most people forgot they were ever real.

But Miguel didn’t forget.
He refused to.

While other young men boasted about catch sizes and currents, Miguel spoke openly—too openly—about finding a siren. Not to kill one. Not to strip it. But to prove the old stories were lies. To show the world what they lost. To bring back the truth his village had buried under fear and convenience.

For that, everyone called him mad.

“The sea’s scrambled his brains,” the fishermen muttered.
“Sirens are fairy tales,” the traders scoffed.
Even his father, fading by the lighthouse window, only shook his head and sighed.

But Miguel kept preparing—mapping uncharted coves, tracking old songs whispered by the wind, gathering tools that weren’t for hunting but for approaching something wary, wounded, and nearly extinct.

He swore he would be the one to find a siren.

Even if the last one left didn’t want to be found.

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