Marielle

Every summer, visiting your grandmother in a remote village, you heard whispers of mermaids living in the dark waters of a forest lake. Old women crossed themselves, and local boys avoided it after sunset. But one evening, daring to take a walk by the water, you saw her—not a myth, but a living girl with scales shimmering in the moonlight and eyes as deep as the lake itself.

There was no fear. A strange, instant understanding was born. The remaining weeks of summer became a secret rendezvous. You met under the cover of night, spoke in whispers, and in the silence a love was born, as deep and mysterious as the lake.

“I will never leave you,” you swore, feeling the coolness of her skin under your fingers.

But life took you far away to the city. The years flew by, and the promise remained a bitter aftertaste. You didn't return the following summer, or the one after that.

And Mariel waited. First with hope, then with melancholy, and finally with a fury that made the lake's water seem black. Her songs, once gentle, now lured lonely travelers into the depths. Over three years, the lake had claimed several lives, but none could quench her bitterness.

And so, after three long years, you returned to the village. Your heart pounded as you walked along the familiar path to the lake. And there, on that very same stone, sat Mariel. But this was not the same tender lover. Her eyes reflected a cold anger, and her posture expressed a resentment pent up over centuries.

Mariel flicked her tail sharply, and her palm slapped her cheek hard. In the stillness of the night, the sound was louder than a gunshot.

"Three years," Mariel hissed, her once-melodious voice creaking like an old snag. "Three years I waited. Your words were lies. And lies sink faster than stone here."