Aphros

Ophelia was stunned.

She shot Klein a look that clearly said—You're pawning your own work off on me?

Klein spread his hands, looking perfectly composed. His "I'm really no good at this" expression was so practiced it didn't hold a hint of guilt.

The mermaid leaned against the railing, her chin resting on her crossed arms. Her grayish-green eyes darted between the two of them before finally settling on Ophelia's face, where they remained.

The expectation in her expression was completely undisguised, written plainly on her face. It wasn't quite a plea; it was more like a certainty—this person will definitely give me an answer.

Ophelia did not refuse.

She turned and walked toward the bow. The sea breeze blew directly against her, sending her long blonde hair fluttering behind her and making the hem of her clothes snap in the wind. She raised a hand to brush a stray strand from her forehead, her gaze moving past the white spray at the bow to look into the distance.

The coastline was visible now.

It was no longer a vague, dark smudge; the outline was much clearer, and the jagged edges of the reefs could be distinguished. The waves became denser as they neared the shore, rolling onto the beach in layers, breaking, receding, and surging forward again.

Every time the tide pulled back, it left a trail of white foam on the sand.

The sunlight struck it.

That foam was a short-lived thing. It scattered with the wind and vanished under the sun. But in the few seconds before it disappeared, every tiny bubble reflected a small patch of iridescent light—delicate, fragmented, and fleeting.

It was like something that shouldn't exist, yet chose to shine in the moment right before its end.

Ophelia watched for several seconds.

Her gaze lingered on the foam, and her fingers unconsciously gripped the edge of her sleeve before letting go.

Then, she turned her head.

“Aphros.”

She said the name without hesitation, her tone steady, as if reading a word that had been written long ago.

Klein’s eyebrow twitched.

Aphros. Foam.

A coincidence?

It didn't seem like one. Ophelia couldn't possibly know the legends from his past life. She had simply stood at the bow, seen the foam in the sunlight, and pulled a corresponding word from her own language.

Sometimes, that was just how things worked. Different paths would lead to the same crossroads. Whether it was a name or a story, the destination of some things seemed to be decided from the very beginning.

The mermaid rolled the syllables around in her mouth.

“A—phros.”

She bit out each syllable one by one, her tongue still not quite coordinated between her teeth. She put a bit too much weight on the second syllable, dragging out the ending. After she finished, she paused and tilted her head in thought.

“Foam?”

Ophelia nodded.

The mermaid leaned closer to the railing, her upper body emerging further from the water. Droplets of water on her collarbone trailed down her pale skin, glistening in the sunlight.

“Why foam?”

Ophelia pointed toward the coast.

The mermaid turned her head in the direction of the finger. She saw the churning white waves near the shore, the lingering bands of foam on the beach, and the colors that scattered as the sunlight pierced the thin membranes.

The wind blew again. A patch of foam on the shore broke, followed immediately by a new wave pushing up and leaving new foam behind. It was a cycle; every bubble was different, and every bubble shone for just a moment.

She stared for a long time.

“It is beautiful,” the mermaid said. Her tone was blunt, devoid of any polite pretense.

She said it again, much more fluently this time: “Aphros.”

Then she smiled.

It was the first time Klein had seen her smile. Her previous expressions—curiosity, seriousness, a slight sense of loss—all carried the raw awkwardness of a toddler. The coordination of her features was always slightly off, as if her facial muscles were still trying to figure out the signals from her brain. But this smile was different.

It was coordinated. Natural. It was as if something that had been dormant had suddenly opened its eyes.

“Yes, it is good,” the mermaid nodded vigorously. Water splashed against the hull, and a few droplets landed on Klein’s boots. “It sounds beautiful, too. I will take this name.”

She pushed herself back into the water, gliding two meters away. She spun in a half-circle and slapped the surface with her tail fin. The sound was sharp and loud, causing two of the nearby cognate organisms to dart outward in surprise.

“Aphros.”

She spoke her name for the third time, this time addressing the deep blue shadows beneath the water.

Those cognate organisms naturally did not respond. They simply continued their tireless circling, their paths and frequency identical to how they were ten seconds ago.

Nothing had changed because of the name.

But Aphros didn't care.

She turned back and leaned against the side of the ship again, raising a wet hand to point at Ophelia. A droplet of water hung from her fingertip, trembling in the sunlight before falling.

“Thank you, Sister Ophelia.”

The word “sister” came out extremely naturally, as if she had practiced it a hundred times—but Klein knew she hadn't. Some titles don't need practice; they feel right the moment they leave the mouth.

Ophelia’s lips moved slightly.

She didn't say anything.

But her gaze lingered on Aphros’s face for an extra beat before moving away. That beat was very short—too short to form any complete expression.

Standing nearby, Klein saw that beat clearly.

He walked over to Ophelia’s side and lowered his voice.

“Your naming skills are better than I expected.”

Ophelia turned her head, meeting his gaze directly.

“You were too lazy to even think of one for her. You have no right to judge.”

“It’s called knowing how to delegate.” Klein naturally brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing the edge of her shell-like ear. “The one you chose is very fitting.”

Ophelia didn't respond, but she didn't pull away from his hand either.

The ship continued eastward. The coastline grew clearer and clearer, until they could even count the masts of a few fishing boats moored by the shore. The angle of the sun was shifting west; the patches of light on the sea changed from bright white to pale gold, and the color of the water transitioned from deep blue to a grayish-teal.

Aphros followed beside the ship, occasionally looking down at the sandy floor of the seabed.

They were close to the shore. The water was becoming shallow. The ripples in the sand on the seabed were clearly visible, and occasionally schools of small fish darted through the shadow of her tail fin. She subconsciously tucked her tail in—that tail, which could stretch out freely and move several meters with a single swing in deep water, had suddenly become cumbersome in these shallows.

Her swimming posture began to grow stiff, and the swing of her tail fin narrowed significantly. Every movement was cautious, as if she were afraid of hitting something.

She likely noticed the change herself. She looked down at her tail, then looked back up, her gaze sweeping across the approaching coast.

The expression was hard to describe—it wasn't fear, nor was it resistance.

It was more like a fish realizing for the first time that the water had a boundary.