Tides and Years

In the summer of her tenth year, Seren still believed her mother knew everything. She believed her mother knew when the coastal winds would turn, when the schools of fish would crowd the shallows, and why a strange, distant city haunted her daughter's sleep. Though her mother never gave a true answer to that last question, ten- year-old Seren held to the simple truth of childhood: grown-ups knew all things, even if they chose not to speak them aloud.

That year, her favorite pastime remained tracing pictures in the wet sand at low tide.

She drew the city of her dreams. She drew the half-open gate and the blurred outlines of the ramparts under a twilight sky. Sometimes she worked with meticulous care; other times she merely dragged a stick through the sand in quick, careless strokes.

Yet whenever she finished, something felt wrong. Perhaps the walls were drawn too high, the gate placed incorrectly, or the distant lanterns leaned the wrong way. The contents of her dreams were ever like that—the harder she tried to summon them into focus, the more elusive they became, until the tide crept in to wash the marks away.

So she would begin again the next day, as if the drawing could never truly be finished. Her mother never stopped her. Once, she stood a short distance away, watching quietly as Seren crouched in the wet sand for an entire afternoon.

Only when the sun dipped toward the horizon did she call her home.

"Did you manage to draw it?

" Seren looked down at the crooked stone walls etched in the dirt and fell quiet.

"No.

" "Then try again tomorrow," her mother said.

"What if I forget it by tomorrow?

" "Then wait until it comes back to you.

" Her mother’s answers were always like that—simple.

Strangely, those plain words never failed to put Seren at ease. Dropping her twig, she followed her mother along the shore toward home as the tide rolled in behind them, swallowing the sand-drawn city once more. She was ten years old then.

Two years passed without grand event in Tidal Bay.

The sea remained, the skiffs went out each morning, and the gulls continued their wheeling patrol above the wooden piers. Yet when Seren looked back, she realized subtle changes had reshaped her world. She had grown taller, and her limbs carried more strength.

She could haul heavy fish crates alongside her mother, mend fryesd nets, and even mind the fish stall alone for a whole morning. The children she had once run with were no longer so lighthearted. Some were joining their fathers out at sea; others were learning to repair hulls, or had been sent away to larger trading ports to learn a trade.

Even the boys who had taken the most pleasure in teasing her had long forgotten the name "Lady Dreamer.

" They had new duties, new worries, and new interests.

Thus, Seren gradually blended in with the rest, at least on the surface. Yet certain habits refused to fade. She still paused to observe things others overlooked—a solitary sea bird perched on a timber piling, an oddly shaped cloud, or a stone worn smooth by the surf.

It was not that these things were remarkable in themselves, but rather that they carried a quiet sense of familiarity, as though met somewhere before. One afternoon, while walking with her mother to collect stray nets along the shore, they passed a massive sea-crag. Seren abruptly stopped, fixing her eyes upon the stone.

Her mother walked a dozen paces before realizing Seren was not beside her.

"What is it?

" Seren pointed to the crag.

"I think that stone was in my dream.

" Her mother glanced back at the rock—a mundane, salt-crusted formation no different from a hundred others.

"Which dream?

" "I can't recall," Seren admitted after a long pause.

"But it feels familiar.

" Her mother looked at her thoughtful expression and offered a small smile.

"Then the stone must be pleased.

" "Why?

"

"Because someone finally remembered it.

" Seren blinked, then let out a soft laugh.

She did not know if her mother was joking, but from that day on, she could never pass that rock without lingering for a second glance. In time, she came to understand that the stone itself mattered little. What mattered was the feeling—that quiet brush where dream and reality touched.

By her fourteenth year, time began to leave clear marks. Old Eden was aging, a fact clear to everyone in the village. The man who once hoisted full net-bundles without breaking a sweat now needed frequent rests.

One day, after Seren helped him carry a net down to the dock, the old man sat heavy on a wooden crate, breathing hard as he stared out over the water.

"Tired?

" Seren asked.

"A bit," Old Eden replied with a faint smile.

"Didn't feel it when I was young.

Now it feels like time's moving far too fast.

" Seren sat down beside him on the timber.

"Feels slow to me.

" The old man chuckled.

"That's because you're young.

" A sea breeze drifted across the pier as a few fishing boats made their steady way back to the bay.

Old Eden watched them, then murmured, "First time I saw you, you barely came up to my belt.

" He gestured with a hand.

Seren shook her head at once.

"I wasn't that short.

" "You were," the old man insisted cheerfully.

"Used to sit at the edge of the pier watching the sea every single day.

"

"Still do," Seren said, smiling.

And it was true. Over the years, she had mastered many things: driving a hard bargain, preparing the daily catch, caring for her mother when sickness took her, and navigating the temperaments of the village folk. Yet her core remained untouched.

She was still drawn by the same quiet things—a bird crossing the sky, a banner snapping in the wind, or the descent of twilight. She would pause and watch, as though gently reminded not to look away. It was also during her fourteenth year that the dream changed for the first time.

The shift was minor, yet it lingered with her. In her sleep, she stood once more outside the stone city. The twilight was the same, the wind was the same, and the ancient walls stood unchanged.

But when she raised her eyes, she noticed the half-ajar gate had parted a fraction wider. The change was barely noticeable, so slight she doubted her own eyes. Yet she knew, with certainty, that it was different.

She sat at the edge of her bed for a long time after waking, watching the light creep into the room. When her mother rose, she found Seren still sitting in silence.

"What is it?

" "The gate opened.

" "What gate?

" "The one in my dream.

" Her mother went quiet for a moment.

"Opened wide?

" "No," Seren shook her head.

"Just a little.

" Her mother considered this.

"Then it isn't ready for you to enter yet.

" Seren couldn't help a small laugh.

"How do you know?

" "Because if it were ready, it would have opened all the way.

"

It was hardly an explanation, yet the words styesd with her for years.

Time marched on. People came and went from Tidal Bay. Some departed; others returned.

Some married, and others grew old. The coastal cottages were repaired and rebuilt, the pier timbers were replaced board by board, and generations of sea birds rose and fell. Yet the city endured in Seren's dreams, untouched by time.

At sixteen, Seren was a child no longer. She could manage the fish stall independently, barter with visiting merchants, and shoulder the weight of her household. Villagers often sought her help with daily tasks.

At dusk, she stood at the pier's end. The water rose and fell beneath her feet, and the sunset painted the sky in brilliant gold. Gulls skimmed the tide.

Standing there, her mind drifted back to the ten-year-old girl who had worried she might one day forget her dream. Back then, she had feared the city would fade with time. Six years later, the memory had only grown sharper—the placement of the stone walls, the tint of twilight, the direction of the wind, and even the faint lanterns beside the gate.

Only one thing remained unknown: what the city was, and why it returned to her night after night. A soft wind blew off the sea as the evening bell rang out from a returning skiff. Seren looked toward the horizon.

The tide was rising, just as it always did. Yet, for reasons she could not put into words, she felt something drawing near. It was unseen and unspoken—like the cool breeze that precedes a rising tide, or the swell forming far out at sea, moving quietly toward her shore.

And her life, like the countless vessels departing Tidal Bay, was preparing to set sail toward a distant horizon she had never seen.