She left them music in a bottle, wax-sealed against the waves.

Now she runs through the night, puddles splashing beneath footfall. It’s been a while since she’s had feet to tap, fingers to play, breath to spare. But she feels the feedback whine in the air, the low thrum of bass, the comforting rhythm of kick and snare.

She wishes she had time for rehearsals, for drinks and joy and tedious drives to the next gig.

But when she arrives, her guitar’s waiting.

The club is fire-regulation packed, pressed bodies in the dark, waving arms like coral on a full moon.

Her bandmates are pros; they know how this works. Toby’s already laying down a bassline, CC’s setting the groove, and when she steps up to the stage, the guitar sings at the touch of her nimble, human fingers.

And then, together, they plunge into dark waters, chords distorted like rusting oil rigs. The crowd roars, and the band swells like the tide.

They’ve all been practicing, even if apart, and their soundscape washes the room. She steps up to the mic and rises in a stormwind of poetry, verses carved from distant shore and abyssal depth.

And in full flow, music-tossed, she grieves that this cannot last. The sea calls her back, to dive deep ere dawn crests the horizon. Her band have never asked. Perhaps they don’t wish to break this magical thing they’re part of.

One day, she’ll show them her skin.