The Abyssal Tide

Beneath the surface of the sea, where light cannot reach and time seems to have forgotten to flow, there is a current that does not appear on maps. Old sailors called it “The Abyssal Tide.” It wasn't just water; it was something that moved with a will.

In that darkness, he was born.

Not like the creatures of the surface, but like something ancient, sculpted by pressure, salt, and silence. His body was articulated, as if made to move among seabed crevices and lost cities. Every movement he made left behind a soft, blue light — not to illuminate, but to remind that he existed.

They called him guardian, though no one ever appointed him. He wandered among shipwrecks, passed over rusty hulls of ships, and listened to their stories. He didn't save them. He didn't fix them. He carried them.

They say that if a ship is lost in the right spot, if the current pulls you deep enough, you might see him. Not clearly — like a pulsating shadow. Like a light that doesn't belong there. And if he looks at you, he won't chase you. He doesn't care that much about you.

He will simply remember you.

And that is worse.

Because whatever the Abyssal Tide remembers, it never truly gets lost. It stays down there, part of the seabed, part of the silence, part of himself.

Some say he is not a monster. Others that he is not even alive. But everyone agrees on one thing:

If you see his blue light in the absolute darkness, it's already too late to turn back.