A man on a ship, perfectly fine as long as he is able to operate the ropes. If a man doesn't, however, he is dubbed useless and sent to swab the deck or cook for an entire crew. Being on a ship is all about how useful you are, afterall.

That rule doesn't apply to women though. It doesn't matter how useful she is; how well she works the ropes, how well she cooks, or how well she fights. A woman is bad luck to the men on the ship in open waters.

Or so they thought.

When I was young, my mother used to tell me stories about the beautiful women in the sea. They had no legs, no flaws that one could see under the water.

I was always fasinated by them. I would question my mother about them evry chance I had.

"Mother, why do the sea women not have legs?" I would ask.

"They only swim, my dear. They cannot walk on land," she would answer.

"Why is that?"

"Their legs are gone, and in their place is a long fish's tail."

I would ask more and more questions about the mysterious women. The talk of them never seemed to get old.

It wasn't until my tenth birthday that I realized that the stories my mother told me weren't actual stories. I remember going down to the shipping harbor to wait for my father to return from a vojage with my uncles and his friends.

I always loved the harbor. The salty air, my surroundings, and hearing the crash of the waves against rocks and sand. It reminded me of a fairytale.

While waiting, an elderly woman came walking by. She limped as she walked down the short walkway and she seemed to be in no hurry. "Little one, who do you wait on?" The elderly woman asked me.

"My father. He is coming back from a vojage today," I polietly answered.

"Child, there is no ship coming into harbor today," she replies quietly and continued to walk past me.

I watched the woman walk away and wondered what she ment by that. Surely my father was returning today, he told my mother that anyways.

I looked back towards the ocean and decide to sit down at the end of the harbor's peer. I hummed a song my father used to sing to me to get me to sleep faster as I wait for him.

I scan the ocean as much as I can. My eyes sweep over a brown color bobbing in the water. I stand up from where I was sitting to try and get a better veiw of the object.

As the object came closer to the shore of the harbor, I walked down the sandy part of it, to the shore and stand in the water. I watched the object float closer while I put my palm over my eyes to shield them from the blazing sun. The small brown object looked so familiar though, almost like an object I used to know.

I walked further into the water and picked up the wooden object. Sure enough, I do know it. How could I ever forget an object like this?

This is the wooden box that my father uses to store his letters. When he comes back from a vojage, he hands me the box and tells me to read his letters and see what kind of adventures he had gone on. It was always an exciting one.

I held the box in my hands and traced the black, carved in patterns of it. Father would never abandon this box. It's too precious to him. So why is it here?

I look back towards the sea, and saw more wooden objects floating towards the shore. My whirled, but I don't think I have to tell you what I figured out at that point

I ran home, wiht mt father's box under my arm. My mother was outside on the porch, relaxing and waiting for my father and I. As soon as she saw me though, she knew something was wrong.

I run up the proch and into my mother's arms, sobbing quietly while she held me.

"It's okay, sweet girl," she said. "Everything's okay."

I tried to calm down after that, but it was no use. Besides, every child deserves to grieve after a parent's death. It's a given.

My mother lightly took the wooden box from my grasp and made me sit down on the porch. While I was sitting there, my body from the sobs, she opened it.

As I expected, the letters inside were soaked. Not only did I lose my father wihtout saying goodbye, but now I wouldn't even be able to read about what he was doing before he had died.

My mother searched the box, though, for anything inside that could still be dry and not ruined. All she found was a ring with a small piece of parchment inside of it, and a beautiful green scale that seemed almost see-through.

My mother placed the scale into her pocket, her eyes flashing with a trace of fear. She opened the parchment and read it before smiling and handing me the ring and paper.

Happy Birthday, Angel.

I slide the ring on my finger and held it close to my chest while trying not to cry anymore. My mother bent down to my height and placed her hands on my shoulders.

"We need to get out of here, dear. Something's coming."