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After his mother's death, Veyle had been taken in by his grandfather, Fisher, a weathered fisherman who lived in a small, quiet town by the coast. The world felt different in Fisher's home—no loud conversations, no soft music playing in the background. It was just the constant sound of the ocean's waves crashing against the shore and the salty air that always clung to everything.
Fisher wasn't the kind of man to coddle. He didn't show affection with hugs or words, but he did it in his own way—with actions. His hands were rough from decades of handling fishing nets, and his shoulders were broad from years of hauling in heavy catches. He was a man of few words, but everything he did was with purpose.
Every morning, the house would come alive with the quiet sound of Fisher getting ready for the day. The creak of his boots against the old wooden floor, the slow rustle of his fishing gear being prepared, and the low hum of the kettle as it heated water. Veyle, still a child, would follow his grandfather as he got ready, trying to absorb every lesson Fisher taught him about the sea.
"Come on, boy. Grab the nets," Fisher would say, his voice rough like gravel but carrying a gentle weight behind it.
Veyle learned to mend nets, to clean fish, and to prepare the boat for long days on the water. It wasn't glamorous work. Most of the time, the sun burned down on them, and the saltwater stung their skin. But for Veyle, these were the moments that formed his life. The boat rocked gently on the waves, and Fisher would always tell him the same thing every time they cast out the nets:
"Patience. The sea doesn't give its bounty freely. You've gotta earn it."
Veyle wasn't sure if he understood the deeper meaning at the time, but he'd nod and try his best. His grandfather's silent, steady presence was the only anchor Veyle had left. And when Fisher did speak, it was usually to share some wisdom he'd learned from a lifetime spent on the water.
"Don't rush, boy. Rushing makes the sea angry," Fisher would say, teaching Veyle how to steer the boat with steady hands. "And the sea don't care if you're angry with it. You'll drown in that fury."
Even though Fisher was a man of few words, there were moments when they sat together, surrounded by the endless blue, and Veyle would watch his grandfather's face soften. Sometimes Fisher would look out to the horizon, a far-off look in his eyes, as if he was searching for something beyond the waves.
"Someday, boy, you'll understand," Fisher would say, not looking at him but speaking as if the words were meant for the sea itself.
Veyle didn't understand then, but as the years passed, he would come to learn the weight those words carried.
As the days turned into months, Veyle began to see less of Fisher. His grandfather's once-steady hands became shaky, and his steps grew slower. He refused to admit that age had caught up to him, though. Fisher was stubborn in that way, like the sea itself. No matter how much his health declined, he kept working, kept pushing forward.
It wasn't until Veyle was about fourteen that he noticed the subtle changes. Fisher would cough violently after long days on the boat, his breath short and labored. His face grew gaunter, the deep wrinkles more pronounced. Veyle asked about it once, but Fisher only waved it off with a gruff answer.
"It's just the saltwater, boy. It wears on you," he said, his voice tired.
But Veyle knew something was wrong. His grandfather was fading, and he was helpless to stop it.
One afternoon, after a long day on the boat, Veyle had returned to find Fisher sitting at the table, his head hanging low. He looked smaller somehow, frailer. There was no strength left in him. Veyle froze in the doorway, his heart sinking as he took in the sight of his once-strong grandfather, now so fragile.
"Grandpa?" Veyle asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Fisher looked up slowly, his eyes clouded with fatigue. But then, in a way that only Fisher could, he smiled.
"You're a good boy," Fisher muttered, his voice rougher than usual. "You're gonna be alright."
Veyle stepped closer, his stomach twisting with worry. He didn't want to admit it, but he could see it now—Fisher was slipping away.
That night, as the sky darkened outside, Veyle stayed close to Fisher. He wanted to say so many things, but the words didn't come. His grandfather, the man who had taught him everything about survival, was slowly fading, and Veyle didn't know how to stop it.
The next morning, Fisher didn't wake up. He was still in his chair, his hands folded over his chest. His once-strong body was now still, the only sound in the room the quiet whisper of the waves outside.
Veyle stood there for a long time, unable to move, unable to speak. It was the first time in his life that he felt completely, utterly alone. The sea had claimed Fisher, just as it had claimed so many before him. And now, Veyle was left with nothing but the memories of those quiet days by the water.
Fisher's death left a hole in Veyle's chest that nothing could fill. He had no idea how to keep going without the old man to guide him. The world felt cold and empty without Fisher's presence, and the lessons the old fisherman had taught him felt like distant echoes.
But even in death, Fisher had given him one final lesson: survival.
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The Robber
Life had been hard without Fisher. The sea no longer felt like a friend; it felt like an enemy. It was as if everything Fisher had told him about patience and survival had died with him. Veyle didn't want to fight anymore. He just wanted to disappear into the same sea that had taken his grandfather.
But one evening, when he was fifteen, the world tried to remind him that survival was more than just a lesson—it was a constant fight.
Veyle was coming home from the small market when he noticed something wrong. His grandfather's house was quiet, too quiet. No sounds of creaking wood, no low hum of the radio Fisher always kept on in the background. It was a hollow silence, unsettling.
As he crept closer to the door, his hand instinctively reached for the knife Fisher had taught him to use on the boat, to fillet fish and protect himself. He pulled it from his pocket, his heart racing. Then he heard it—a noise, a thud, followed by muffled voices.
Without thinking, Veyle pushed the door open, just enough to peek inside. His heart stopped. A man—stranger to the house—was standing over his grandfather's body. Fisher, slumped on the floor, eyes wide in shock.
"Grandpa!" Veyle screamed, but it came out as a broken rasp. His stomach twisted, and his chest burned. The man turned around, startled.
But fear didn't stop Veyle. It didn't even slow him down.
The robber lunged, but Veyle was faster. With a guttural scream, he charged. The knife found its mark, plunging into the robber's side as they both tumbled to the ground.
The man gasped in pain, his face twisted with fury and terror. As the man writhed, Veyle pressed the knife deeper, and with one final thrust, the robber went limp, his body going cold beneath Veyle's hands.
Veyle pulled away, panting, his hands shaking as he looked at the corpse. His stomach churned as he wiped the blood from his face.
He didn't feel victorious. He didn't feel proud. He just felt empty.
The police arrived too late to stop the chaos. But it was too late to fix what had already been broken. Veyle was left standing there, covered in blood, his mind racing, and his hands trembling.
And for the first time, he realized: this was survival. No one had ever told him it would feel like this. No one had told him how much it would cost.
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