Sixty years old she was, now.

Low above the horizon hung the moon, a creamy gold, its light on the darkling waves seemed to be like bits of butter melting forever on them. A moon-path extended all the way from shore, where she stood, to where the moon's rim skated on the barely-visible defining line where ocean met sky. She closed her eyes and listened.

She stood here every night, waiting for somebody or something to find her, and they found her without fail every night. The wind whispered like silken cloth against the water, but there was something more, more than the shushing of waves on sand. Voices.

Far, far away, out on the open water, she was certain of that. That was where they were coming from. She strained her ears, and caught it – quiet and wavering, but the melody was there. It wove through everything, preternatural, causing goosebumps to rise on her skin, and now it was growing louder, more certain. Mirra peered into the night that rose over the ocean, with eyes and ears she tried to see into it. Stepping closer to the water...

And now that the moon was higher, the light more white than cream, she could make out shapes of something, several somethings, swimming. Ripples spread out like silver filigree behind them, as they rose above the water and dove, rose and dove, their song rising and diving with them. They brought up flickering scraps of memory, that came in and out of focus like the play of water's light on a wall.

Coming closer, approaching the shore, whoever or whatever they were. Silent tears began to streak down her cheeks, fading into the wrinkles that lined her tired, gray skin. She could see them, now, as they pulled themselves onto a rock perhaps fifty yards away, and they sang, sang strong enough to break an old woman's heart with the force of melancholy and longing. Mirra reached out her arms to the beautiful creatures that held hands and tilted their faces towards the moon's shine, reached out her arms to beautiful memory.

“Oh daughter, my child....”

Who was the sea to steal a child from her mother? The mermaids sang and sang, the moon rose higher and higher, and still Mirra stood, intoxicated with moonlight, memory, and sweet song.

Who was the sea to steal a husband from a wife? Inexorably, the melody hummed over the horizon and through the wind.

Who was the sea to steal a brother from a sister? Mirra longed to wail and mourn with them, but she could not summon even that.

The moon set, and everything vanished into the coldness of starlight. She turned and went back home, to get some sleep before the sun rose. She would be back tomorrow, the day after that, the day after and the next and the next, as long as the mermaids were there Mirra would come, even if the very earth were to fall apart and crumble and all that was left would be the ocean itself, she would come. She would age and wither, but her memory would remain, and the mermaids would remain.

A lonely heart will never let go.