At first she didn't believe it.

  The compass drifted toward her.

  She almost didn’t see it. The ocean was still, too still, and it barely disturbed the water as it floated past her fingertips. But there it was—waiting, watching.

  It wasn't right.

  She knew it before she even reached for it.

  The metal was darker than before, like it had been sinking for years, not hours. The glass face was cracked, a deep splinter running through its center, distorting the needle. The arrow twitched erratically, unable to decide where to point.

  Her fingers hovered over it.

  She could take it. Hold it. Feel it in her palm again, just to be sure.

  It had led her once.

  Hadn’t it?

  Her throat closed. A pulse of something old and aching pressed against her ribs.

  She was safer with it.

  She closed her hand around it.

  The second she touched it, something yanked at her waist.

  A gasp, sharp and strangled. Her body lurched backward, dragged by something unseen. The water rippled around her as she twisted, as she clawed at the waves, as she fought against—

  A rope.

  It was tied around her waist.

  Her breath stuttered. It was thick, heavy, soaked through with seawater, its fibers rough against her skin. It trailed down, down, disappearing beneath the surface.

  Her stomach lurched.

  The ship.

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  She had seen it sink. Had watched as the storm ripped it apart, as the waves swallowed it whole.

  But now—now—

  It was still there. Below her. Waiting.

  She twisted again, her chest rising and falling too fast, her heart hammering at the cage of her ribs.

  Maybe she could go back.

  Maybe it wasn’t too late.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears. If the ship was still there, then—then everything else could be, too.

  She could fix it.

  The rope pulled tighter.

  Her breath hitched.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, something flickered.

  The fight.

  The breaking point.

  The desperate words.

  A wrist in her hands.

  The moment she let go.

  Her fingers trembled.

  She still held the compass.

  The rope pulled again.

  Harder this time.

  She lurched forward, barely able to keep her head above water as the ocean swallowed her legs, pulling her down inch by inch. She gasped, kicking, fighting, but the weight around her waist was relentless, dragging her toward the depths.

  Back toward the ship.

  Back toward what was already gone.

  Her grip on the compass tightened.

  She could go back.

  She could try again.

  Her breath hitched, throat tight, chest burning. She twisted in the water, eyes darting to the rope that coiled around her waist.

  The ship was waiting.

  A shadow beneath the surface, deep and endless. The more she stared, the more it felt like it was staring back.

  A sharp breath.

  She remembered the way the deck splintered beneath her feet. The way the storm howled through the sails. The way the wind screamed, tearing everything apart, piece by piece.

  She remembered the look in their eyes.

  And the words she could never take back.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears.

  The ship was broken. Sinking. It had already been lost.

  So why was she still holding on?

  Her fingers curled around the compass. The needle twitched, uncertain. It used to point somewhere—used to lead her forward—but now it only spun, lost and frantic, as if it didn’t know the way either.

  It was broken

  She exhaled, slow and shaking.

  She had spent so long believing it was the only thing keeping her safe.

  But maybe it was only keeping her here.

  The rope pulled again, sharp enough to drag her under for a heartbeat. Cold water filled her ears, her mouth, her lungs, until she fought her way back up, gasping, coughing.

  No more.

  Her chest heaved. Her arms ached. She scanned the water desperately, eyes searching, searching—

  There.

  Something sharp.

  A jagged piece of wood from the wreckage. A shard of something that used to be whole.

  She kicked toward it, reaching, stretching—

  Her fingers closed around it.

  A breath. A pause.

  The rope tugged again.

  She raised the shard.

  And she cut.

  The fibers snapped one by one, waterlogged and weak, but still clinging, still trying to hold her in place.

  She kept going.

  The last thread gave way.

  The pull was gone.

  The rope slipped beneath the waves, vanishing into the dark.

  She didn’t follow.

  She was free.