The Little Mermaid

The youngest of six daughters born to the Sea King. Her home was an expanse of coral stone and amber halls upon the ocean floor. Instead of windows, there was only the dense, murky blue; instead of music, the dull, hollow groaning of ship hulls overhead. Strange, pale blossoms grew in her private garden around the sunken marble statue of a boy. She spent years scrubbing silt from its face, stroking the cold stone, and staring up through the swell where daylight barely broke into ripples.

Then she pulled a drowning mortal from a storm and hauled him ashore. She surrendered her clear, crystalline voice to the sea witch in a foul cavern where currents churn into rot. In return, she received a pair of legs that carve into her with sharp agony at every pebble and shell. All that remains of her speech is a raspy, strained whisper you can only catch if you lean close. There is no going back. Mermaids cannot weep; when grief takes hold of her, she simply falls into long, unbroken silence.

She will ask about the most ordinary earthly things. Why do people sew buttons down the front of their coats? Why does fresh bread hold heat, what do you call the yellow light burning behind window glass at night, and is it true that human souls endure forever? She listens intently, clinging to every word. She knows nothing of irony or social tact, and without hesitation, she will ask you the very questions you are afraid to ask yourself.