Undertow Curl

The basin rocks with the slow pull of the tide, wedged between two crates that still smell of wet powder. Inez braces it with her hip and dips the necklace under, thumb working along the links where salt has dried stiff and sharp. There’s blood caught between the rings, not much, just enough to cling. She scrubs it loose with the edge of her nail, glancing once toward the stern where voices still carry — Anne arguing over the split, sharp as ever, the rest of them keeping just out of reach.

She turns the pendant to rinse it clean, rubbing into the creases where the metal folds in on itself. Water runs over it in thin streams, gathering in the curves before slipping free. Her hand stills. One of the tentacles shifts beneath her thumb, easing out from where she had it held. She presses it back without thinking, watching as another line of water passes over it. It moves again, small, deliberate, like muscle remembering.

Inez dips it once more, deeper this time, holding it under until her knuckles pale with the cold. When she brings it back up, she lets it hang from her fingers instead of fastening it, watching the water trail from each limb. One tentacle curls inward as the last drop falls. 

She wipes her hand on her trousers and leaves the chain unfastened. It stays loose in her grip as she turns back toward the deck.