The salt air coiled through the morning like smoke from ancestral spirits, seeping into the worn planks of the docks and painting everything with its ancient breath. Dawn had barely lifted her veil, yet the port already pulsed with the heartbeat of commerce—sailors hauling their burdens, market women's voices rising and falling like waves, gulls weaving their sharp songs through the tapestry of sound.

Onwuka stood beside Capitão Gregório, whose body bore the markings of decades spent in communion with the sea. The old man's skin had been blessed by sun and salt until it resembled well-loved leather, each wrinkle a story, each spot a memory. His hands, though trembling now as they worked the barrel straps, still held the wisdom of countless tides.

"That one's a bad omen," Gregório murmured, nodding toward a stranger wrestling with his load of grain.

"You say that about everyone new," Onwuka said, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Because most of them don't last," the old sailor shot back. "Either the sea swallows them, or the land does."

Their conversation drifted between work and the weather, settling into the comfortable rhythm of men who had learned to fill silence with meaning. But then, as Gregório adjusted his cap, his gaze shifted past Onwuka's shoulder, and his expression changed.

Onwuka turned just as a small group passed—a trio of women in plain servant dresses, their baskets balanced neatly on their hips. At the center was Luísa.

Her dark curls were pulled back, stray strands clinging to the nape of her neck from the heat. There was no laughter in her face today, no playful quip dancing on her lips. Only a scowl as sharp as the fishmonger's blade, thrown directly at Onwuka.

He offered up a smile like a peace offering at an altar, small and humble.

She turned away as if he had offered nothing at all.

"Ah," Gregório sighed knowingly, following the retreating figures with his eyes. "She's still got her thorns." 

Onwuka released a breath heavy with unspoken words. "She's always like that." 

Gregório shook his head. "Not always. Not before." 

Something in his voice made Onwuka turn to him, curiosity unfurling in his chest like a night-blooming flower.

"You knew her before?" 

The old sailor chuckled dryly. "Knew her mother better. And I'll tell you this: that girl was born into fire." 

Onwuka leaned against a wooden crate, waiting. 

Gregório took his time, running a weathered thumb over the rim of his tin cup. "Her mother, the matrona—she wasn't always a healer, you know. She used to work in the house of a wealthy man. The kind that thought his blood was too wealthy to mix with the likes of us." He spat onto the docks, as if ridding himself of the very taste of the past. "But he mixed it anyway. And when she told him she carried his child, do you know what he did?" 

Onwuka's throat tightened with familiar pain. Some stories were carved into the bones of their people, told in different tongues but speaking the same truth.

"He turned his back on her." 

Gregório gave a slow nod. "Not at first. He wanted to marry her. Foolish boy thought love was enough. But his family—rich, white, powerful—they had other plans. Sent him off to São Paulo with a governor's daughter. Sent her out of their house like a dog in the rain. And that was that." 

The weight of the tale settled between them. Onwuka glanced again toward the street where Luísa had disappeared, something heavy pressing against his ribs. 

She had been born into fire. And she had learned to survive in its ashes. 

Gregório let out a long sigh, rubbing at his chin. "She used to keep to herself, you know. Cigarettes and silence. That's all she had. But she's talking now. Moving among people again." He shot a sidelong glance at Onwuka. "Maybe that has something to do with you." 

Onwuka scoffed. "She still looks at me like she'd rather gut me than greet me." 

Gregório grinned, showing a row of crooked teeth. "That means she likes you, boy." 

Before Onwuka could argue, a loud voice carried from the pier, and both men turned. 

A sailor, speaking in rapid Portuguese, was gesturing wildly toward the water. Others gathered, their murmurs thick with unease. 

Onwuka caught only fragments of the words—"mulher na água"—and his stomach knotted. 

A woman in the water. 

Gregório, watching his face, translated softly. "They say someone saw a siren." 

Onwuka's blood went cold. 

"A siren?" 

The old man nodded, his words carrying the weight of generations. "There's a story that lives in these waters. Some say the siren is a guardian, claiming those the sea has chosen. Others believe she is hunger itself, taking what she desires." His eyes searched the waves. "For centuries, men have slipped into darkness, and the old ones whisper her name."

Onwuka's fingers curled into his palm. The memory of Maria's silhouette against the lantern light rose in his mind—the way she moved, the way she looked at him with something just out of reach, something ancient and knowing.

Was she a thread connecting him to his past, or the current pulling him toward tomorrow?

A small figure cut through his thoughts.

João.

The boy he'd rescued from the merchant's grasp now stood before him, feet bare and skin dusted with the day's labor, a modest sack slung over one shoulder.

"You again," Onwuka said, arching an eyebrow.

João grinned, all sharp teeth and mischief. "I work now.

Onwuka crossed his arms. "No more stealing bread?"

The boy straightened with mock seriousness. "No more stealing." Then, as if reconsidering, he added, "Unless I'm very hungry."

Onwuka laughed, shaking his head. "Good. Now go find something honest to do before I turn you into a proper homem."

João brightened. "Teach me more Igbo words today?"

Onwuka hesitated, then nodded. "Later."

The boy scampered off, leaving Onwuka standing between stories—the siren's legend still ringing in his ears, Luísa's past pressing against his thoughts. But there was one more thing left unfinished.

Maria.

He made his excuses to Gregório, ignoring the knowing look that crossed the old man's face, and walked toward the hospital.

The moment he entered the courtyard, time seemed to still.

Maria stood with a young white man, their laughter mixing like fresh water with salt. His hand rested on her arm with the ease of familiarity.

Something dark and ancient stirred in Onwuka's chest.

He had never thought of himself as a man given to jealousy.

But watching them, unseen and uninvited, he felt it rise in him like a tide—sharp and bitter as the sea itself.

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