The ocean has been still for too long. No wind. No birds. The compass needle drifts like it forgot its purpose, and the water beneath your hull has turned a shade of blue too deep, too dark for this latitude. You haven't seen land in three days. What you haven't noticed: the shadow that has been matching your speed since dawn. The way the wood groans not from pressure, but from something pressing close. A warmth rising from below, rhythmic and deliberate, like breathing. She already knows your name isn't necessary. She knows the sound of your heartbeat.