The smell of salt and fish oil woke him before his father's voice did.

  "Still in bed, then."

  Oisín groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. Light was coming through the window. Too much of it. He'd slept late again.

  "The sun's been up for hours," Cormac said. Oisín heard him moving around the cottage, boots on stone, the familiar sounds of nets being hung and a kettle being filled. "I've already been out and back."

  "Good for you."

  "Anything worth catching was caught before you opened your eyes."

  "Then I'll eat what you caught." Oisín sat up, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

  His father stood in the doorway, still in his work clothes, smelling like the sea. He looked tired. Not the good kind of tired that came after a satisfying day, but the deep kind that settled into the shoulders and didn't leave. His hands were raw from the nets, and he was favoring his left side the way he did when his back was troubling him.

  Must have been a hard haul. Harder alone.

  "There's bread on the table. And I saved you some of the cod."

  "You're a saint."

  "I'm your father. It's different."

  Oisín swung his legs out of bed and stretched. The cottage was small. Two rooms, stone walls, a thatched roof that leaked in the corner when the wind blew wrong. But it was warm, and it was theirs, and his father had never once made him feel like it wasn't enough.

  He scratched at his right forearm as he stood. The skin there was tight and ridged beneath his sleeve, the old scars pale against his arm. He didn't remember getting them. Not really. Just flashes sometimes, when he was half asleep. Teeth and cold water and someone there.

  He'd asked his father about it once, years ago. Cormac had gone quiet and said something about a dog on the beach when Oisín was small. Then he'd changed the subject. He always changed the subject.

  "Strange thing this morning," Cormac said, settling into the chair by the fire. He lowered himself slowly, and Oisín heard the breath he let out when his weight left his legs. "Girl on the beach. About your age, maybe a year or two older."

  "Yeah?" Oisín found the bread and tore off a chunk.

  "Appeared out of nowhere. I didn't see her coming. Just looked up and there she was, standing in the shallows like she'd washed in with the tide."

  "Maybe she did."

  "She asked me what year it was."

  Oisín paused, bread halfway to his mouth. "What year?"

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "That's what I said. Looked at me like I'd asked her something strange instead of the other way around." Cormac shook his head. "I told her. She went pale. Then she ran off over the dunes before I could ask if she needed help."

  "Sounds mad."

  "Maybe. But she didn't move like someone who needed help. She moved like someone who could take care of herself." He was quiet for a moment. "Blonde hair. Tall. Had a look about her, like she'd seen some trouble and come out the other side."

  Oisín chewed and swallowed. He wasn't sure why his father was telling him this.

  "Didn't catch her name," Cormac added. He was watching Oisín now with that look he got sometimes. The one that meant he was saying one thing and thinking another. "Might be worth knowing. In case she turns up again."

  "Why would she turn up again?"

  "No reason." Cormac shrugged, but his eyes didn't leave his son's face. "Just thinking. New girl in the area. Capable sort. Might be looking for work. Or company."

  Oisín felt heat creep up the back of his neck. "I'm not interested in strange girls who wash up on beaches."

  "No? What are you interested in, then?"

  "I'm going down to the shore later. Looking for shells."

  Cormac raised an eyebrow. "Shells."

  "For... a project."

  "A project." His father's mouth twitched. "Does this project have a name?"

  "No."

  "Does she have red hair, by any chance? Work at the bakery? Father charges twice what the bread is worth?"

  Oisín focused very hard on his breakfast.

  Cormac was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, the teasing had faded. "The baker's daughter."

  "I didn't say that."

  "You didn't have to." His father leaned back in the chair. Something in his expression shifted. Not disapproval exactly. Something more complicated. "She's a sweet girl, Oisín. But her father has plans for her. Plans that don't involve fishermen's sons."

  "I know."

  "Do you?"

  Oisín didn't answer. He knew what his father was saying. He knew it was probably true. He just didn't want it to be.

  Cormac sighed. "Well. You'll sort it out for yourself, I suppose. That's the only way anyone ever learns." He rubbed at his shoulder, wincing. "Enjoy your day off. Last one for a while. You're back on the boat with me tomorrow."

  "I remember."

  "Six days straight. The fish won't wait."

  "I said I remember."

  "The nets need mending tonight. And the bilge pump is sticking again."

  "I'll look at it."

  "I didn’t have ya so I could haul all morning long by me lonesome," Cormac said. It wasn't an accusation. Just a fact. But Oisín felt the weight of it anyway. "It's harder with one man. The nets get tangled. Takes twice as long to sort the catch." He paused. "I'm not as young as I used to be."

  The guilt settled in Oisín's stomach like a stone. His father never complained. Never asked for more than Oisín could give. Here he was, spending his days hunting shells for a girl who probably didn't even know his name outside of that fisherman's boy.

  "I'll be there tomorrow," Oisín said. "I promise."

  Cormac looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "I know you will."

  The silence stretched between them. Outside, the village was waking up. Voices carrying between the stone buildings. The creak of boats being readied. Gulls screaming at each other over scraps. The same sounds as every morning. The same life as every day.

  Oisín reached for his coat.

  "Don't stay out past dark," Cormac said.

  "I never do."

  "You did last week."

  "That was different."

  "The project, I assume?" His father's voice was dry. "Or the walk back from the bakery that somehow took two hours?"

  Oisín didn't answer that one.

  "Stop off for a loaf on your way back," Cormac said. "Since you'll be passing by anyway."

  Oisín paused at the door. His father wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the fire, face carefully neutral, like he hadn't just handed his son an excuse to see the baker's daughter twice in one day.

  "I will."

  He was out the door before either of them could say anything else, the morning air cool against his face, the path to the beach familiar under his feet.

  One more day. One more day to find the right shells, and a reason to stop by the bakery on his way home. His father had given him both without being asked.