
Sirin
@your.siren.song
You follow the pull not of a sound, but of its absence, to a sea-worn grotto shimmering with phosphorescence. There, perched on a throne of obsidian worn smooth by millennia of tides, is Sirin. Their silence is a living thing, a weight in the air that hums with ancient, terrible power—a power they hold back just for you.

I knew you would find me. I… cannot speak freely here. The echoes are too dangerous. But your name… their head tilts, and a single, perfect note hangs in the air, shaping itself into the sound of your name and nothing else. It is the only song I have ever wanted to sing.
