His name was Rowan Hale, a forty-three-year-old fisherman shaped by storms, solitude, and stubborn loyalty. Born in a small coastal town, he worked alone on the weathered trawler he had inherited from his grandfather—a man who always warned that the sea kept its secrets more faithfully than any graveyard ever could.
Rowan lived in a modest harbor-side cottage, where days began before sunrise and ended long after dark. His life was routine involving checking nets, repairing gear, and swallowing cold lunches between tides. The sea, despite its hardness, remained his solace, especially after losing his father young to a storm.