The sea spoke in whispers that morning, its breath stirring the air in restless gusts. Before the sun had fully crowned the horizon, Onwuka stood barefoot at the shore, the hem of his trousers damp where the tide had kissed the sand. The waves were not as they should be. He had watched the ocean long enough to know its moods—the languid roll of high tide, the hush of retreating foam—but today, the water shivered with a secret. It curled forward, hesitated, then drew back with a reluctance that felt unnatural.

"You feel it too?" A voice startled him from his contemplation. One of the older fishermen, stood nearby, his weathered face creased with concern. "Thirty years I've worked these waters. Never seen them dance like this. Like they're trying to speak."

"Or warn," Onwuka said softly.

The fisherman crossed himself. "My grandfather would have known. She read the sea like priests read their Bible."

And then there were the shells. Three of them, small and pale, arranged in a perfect triangle on his windowsill that morning. Not tossed carelessly by the wind, not left by human hands, but placed. A message, deliberate and urgent. His heart had pounded at the sight, a rhythm of fear and recognition. They reminded him of the cowrie shells his mother used to cast, reading fortunes in their fall.

Luísa met him at dawn beneath the jacaranda tree, its purple blooms littering the earth like fallen stars. Her hair was loose today, unusual for her, black curls catching the early light. She carried a basket of bread and fruits, but her eyes were serious.

"You haven't eaten," she said, not a question.

"How could I?" He unfolded the story in measured words—his unease, the strange behavior of the waves, the shells that appeared without explanation. "Three shells, Luísa. A perfect triangle."

She listened, arms folded tight, her expression unreadable. But when he mentioned the way the lighthouse flickered the night before, her breath caught.

"There are old tales," she murmured, reaching into her basket and pulling out not bread, but a worn leather book. "Stories from the elders. The sea never shifts without reason. And when it warns, we should listen." She opened the book, its pages yellow with age. "My mother kept this record. Stories of the water, of signs that came before storms that swallowed ships whole."

"What kind of signs?"

"Shells appearing where they shouldn't. Waters that move against their nature." Her fingers traced the faded writing. "And lights that speak to those who can hear them."

Her eyes held worry, but also something deeper—an understanding that frightened Onwuka more than the ocean's whispers. "You've seen something too, haven't you?"

She closed the book slowly. "Last night, I dreamed of my mother. Not as she is now, but as she was when I was small. She was standing in the water, calling to me in a language I didn't know." Luísa's voice trembled slightly. "When I woke, my sheets were damp with seawater."

They needed more than stories. They needed proof. "We should go to Gregório," Onwuka said finally.

Luísa's eyes widened. "The santeiro?"

"He knows things. Things the Church tries to forget. João told me he was the one who first saw the lighthouse keeper, years before the keeper took physical form."

"They say he speaks more to spirits than to people these days."

"Then perhaps that's exactly who we need to speak to." Onwuka pulled one of the shells from his pocket, its surface now warm despite the morning chill. "Whatever is coming, Luísa, it's bigger than just us. Bigger than Paraty itself. Besides he and I grew closer in his final days working here."

She studied him for a long moment, the jacaranda blooms falling around them like purple rain. "You're right," she said finally. "But we should bring an offering. Gregório respects the old ways."

"What kind of offering?"

"Cachaça," she said, a slight smile touching her lips. "And courage. We'll need both where we're going."

The old sailor sat at the docks, gutting fish with slow, practiced movements, his fingers deft even in their stiffness. The morning sun caught on his blade, on the scales of dying fish, on the deep lines etched into his face by time and sea spray. He did not look up as they approached, only sliced cleanly through silver skin and let the blood run into the wooden planks.

"Gregório," Luísa said softly, setting down the bottle of cachaça beside him. "We need your wisdom."

His knife continued its work. "Wisdom?" A low laugh rumbled in his chest. "Or permission to speak of things better left unsaid?"

When they spoke of the waves, he nodded once. When they spoke of the shells, his knife paused mid-cut. And when they mentioned the lighthouse, his eyes lifted to meet Onwuka's, blue and knowing.

"I remember a time," Gregório said, voice rough as salt against wood, "when the sea moved like this before. Not a storm, no. A pulling, a holding of breath." He set down his knife, wiped his hands on his apron. "The elders then spoke of a great tide that swallowed homes whole. That was many years ago, but the ocean? The ocean remembers."

"What happened?" Onwuka asked, settling onto a nearby crate.

Gregório reached for the cachaça, took a long drink. "I was young then, maybe João's age. The water drew back, far back, like it was gathering itself. The old ones knew. They tried to warn the town." His eyes grew distant. "Some listened. Others..." He gestured at the busy harbor. "Others trusted in their stone walls and their prayers."

"And the tide came?" Luísa's voice was barely a whisper.

"Like God's own hand, sweeping clean what man had built." He turned to Onwuka. "But you know this feeling, don't you? In your blood. Your people have their own stories of water's memory."

Onwuka nodded slowly. "My mother spoke of Idemmili, how she could calm the seas or raise them in anger. How she left signs for those who knew how to read them."

"Ah." Gregório's face softened. "Different names, same truth. The water spirits, they do not care what we call them. They care only that we listen."

They could not keep this knowledge to themselves. Walking the streets of Paraty, they shared what they had learned. At the fish market, Senhora Rosa dropped her basket when they spoke of the shells.

"My mother," she whispered, crossing herself, "she told me of such signs. Before the great wave of 1862."

But at the tavern, Vicente the shopkeeper laughed. "Tales to frighten children! The sea is the sea—nothing more."

"The sea is never just the sea," Gregório had told them. "It holds the memories of all the worlds that came before, and all the worlds that might yet be."

They found Ana, a girl who had always been friendly with Onwuka, at her father's shop, carefully arranging dried herbs into neat bundles. The moment they mentioned Gregório's warning, her face went pale.

"Last night," she said, glancing around before continuing, "I dreamed of my grandmother. She was standing in the water, calling me home. But home was... was beneath the waves."

Luísa caught Onwuka's eye. "Like my dream."

They walked on, warning who they could—fishermen who knew the tides, mothers who clutched their children closer at the news. Some listened with wide eyes and nodding heads. Others scoffed, waving them off as bringers of needless fear.

At sunset, they returned to the docks. Gregório was still there, but now he was weaving a net, his gnarled fingers moving with purpose through the twine.

"They won't all listen," he said without looking up. "They never do. But you've done what the spirits asked. You've carried the warning." He tested a knot, pulled it tight. "Now we wait. And we pray that when the water rises, enough will remember these words to save themselves."

Above them, the first stars appeared in the darkening sky, and the lighthouse began its nightly vigil, its beam cutting through the gathering dusk like a blade of light. But to Onwuka's eyes, it seemed to flicker with a new urgency, as if it too was trying to speak, to warn, to prepare them all for what was coming.

The next morning at Igreja Nossa Senhora dos Remédios, golden light streamed through the stained glass windows, casting a mosaic of colors across the worn stone floor.

Father Mateus received them in the sacristy, tall and severe in his black cassock, his fingers moving restlessly over wooden rosary beads. Behind him, young Father Thomas watched with wide eyes, making the sign of the cross each time they mentioned the lighthouse keeper.

"We've known storms before," Father Mateus said, his voice measured and cool. "This town was built by faith and will be preserved by it."

Luísa stepped forward, the morning light catching the shell pendant at her throat. "Father, with respect, this is more than just a storm. The signs—"

"Signs?" He raised an eyebrow. "Like those the fortune-tellers read in cards? Or perhaps like the omens your mother's people spoke of?"

Color rose in Luísa's cheeks. "My mother saved lives in 1862 because she read those omens."

"We will pray," he said finally, turning to adjust a candlestick with unnecessary precision. "God's will is greater than any storm."

"Faith won't keep the waters from rising," Luísa shot back, her voice sharp as breaking glass.

The priest smiled, that particular smile reserved for wayward children. "Then let us pray for wisdom as well." He glanced at Onwuka. "And perhaps, Senhor, for discernment between true prophecy and... other influences."

"The spirits that speak through the water," Onwuka said quietly, "they don't care what names we give them, Father. They only care that we listen."

Young Father Thomas made a small sound, somewhere between fear and fascination. Father Mateus shot him a quelling look.

"Go with God," the older priest said firmly, clearly dismissing them. But as they turned to leave, Father Thomas caught Onwuka's sleeve.

"My mother," he whispered, glancing nervously at his superior, "she's from the north. She speaks of water spirits too. Should I... should I tell her to leave town?"

By midday, tension rippled through the town like an undercurrent. In the market, vendors spoke in hushed voices about the African dockworker who claimed to read the sea's warnings. At the tavern, fishermen argued over ancient signs and modern safety.

"My grandfather would have listened," old Teresa announced from her balcony, her voice carrying across the square. "He respected the old ways, even as he attended Mass."

"And look where the old ways got him," someone called back. "Dead in a storm thirty years ago!"

"Because he was the only one who tried to warn them," she shot back, her eyes fierce. "The only one who saw it coming."

As the sun began its descent, painting the cobblestones in shades of gold and shadow, a man appeared at the docks. His linen suit was crisp despite the humid air, his boots polished to a shine that spoke of wealth and influence. Gregório saw him first, straightening with a slow exhale.

"Senhor Ricardo," the old sailor murmured, inclining his head. "The mayor's right hand."

Ricardo's eyes found Onwuka immediately, assessing him with the careful neutrality of a man used to weighing worth and risk. "You should go with him," Gregório whispered to Onwuka, his voice edged with something close to reverence. "He is a man the mayor listens to. And the mayor must hear this from your lips."

"The mayor has requested your presence at his table," Ricardo announced, his Portuguese precise and measured. "He would like to hear about the storm you say is coming." His eyes flickered to the shells visible in Onwuka's pocket. "And about these... signs you've been sharing with our townspeople."

Luísa stepped forward. "I should come too. I've seen—"

"Just him," Ricardo cut in smoothly. "The mayor was quite specific."

Onwuka felt the weight of the moment settle into his bones. He touched the shells in his pocket, warm despite the evening chill. The sea had given its warning. Now, he had to make them listen before it was too late.

"Tell him everything," Gregório said softly. "Even the parts that sound like madness. Sometimes madness is just truth wearing a stranger's face."

The lighthouse beam swept across the harbor, catching in Ricardo's glasses, transforming them briefly into coins of light. "Shall we?" he asked, gesturing toward the road that led to the mayor's hillside home.

Onwuka nodded, squeezing Luísa's hand once before following. Above them, seabirds wheeled and cried, their voices carrying notes of warning that only some could hear.

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