Shards of a Sunk Heart

Elias tasted the salt on his tongue before his eyes even opened, a permanent fixture in the air of their small, leaning shack on the cliffs. The pre-dawn chill seeped through the cracks in the walls, raising gooseflesh on his arms. Beside him, Lena, twelve years old and too thin, breathed a shallow, rhythmic gasp that always settled his gut, for a moment anyway. He shifted, joints popping like old timber, and the lumpy mattress groaned. Another day. Another dive into the deep, into the silence, into the shimmering ghost of what was once. The Sunken Glass City.

He moved without a sound, pulling on the worn canvas trousers, then the thick, patched sweater. The small kerosene lamp cast dancing shadows, making their meager possessions look like monstrous, hunched figures. A half-eaten loaf of stale bread, a chipped ceramic mug, Lena's collection of polished sea glass on the sill—each one a small, hard jewel, proof of what the ocean could give, or take. He caught his reflection in the dark windowpane: a face etched with salt and sun, eyes like slate, a jaw that never quite relaxed. A diver’s face. A father’s face.

By the time he was out on the jetty, the old boat, the *Lena's Whisper*, bumped gently against the barnacle-encrusted pilings. The air was crisp, the ocean a bruised purple under the first grey bleed of dawn. He checked the air tanks, their metal cold beneath his calloused fingers, then the lines, the pressure gauges. Every click, every twist, was a prayer. He thought of Lena’s cough, persistent these last weeks, a dry, rattling thing that woke him sometimes in the dead of night. They needed medicine. Good medicine. And good medicine cost more than a few days’ catch of fish.

Lena appeared then, a small silhouette against the growing light, clutching a faded blanket around her shoulders. Her bare feet scuffed the rough wood of the jetty. Her eyes, wide and serious, met his. “Be careful, Papa,” she whispered, her voice a reedy thing, barely audible over the sigh of the waves. He walked to her, knelt, and pressed his forehead against hers. He smelled the faint scent of sleep and something sweet, like wildflowers, on her hair. “Always, little bird. Always.” He didn't tell her *what* he was looking for today. Something rare. Something deep. Something that might pay for a doctor’s visit, maybe a new pair of boots for winter.

The descent was always the hardest part. The water swallowed the light, turning the world into a murky, crushing green. The pressure built, a dull ache in his ears, then in his chest. The *Lena's Whisper* bobbed far above, a tiny cork in an endless sea. Then, through the gloom, it appeared: the city. Not ruins in the traditional sense, but perfectly preserved structures, homes, towers, all rendered in a multitude of glass, shimmering with an impossible, otherworldly light from the ambient glow, refracting it into a million splintered rainbows. It was beautiful, terrifying. A city frozen in its last breath, waiting.

He swam through glass streets, past houses with glass roofs, their interiors still holding the ghosts of furniture, chairs, tables, all made of the same clear, iridescent material. Fish darted through silent, empty doorways, their scales flashing. A current, a sly underwater hand, pulled him gently towards what looked like a central plaza, a vast open space where a grand structure, maybe a market or a town hall, stood sentinel. He had heard stories from the old timers, stories of a quake, a sudden, violent shift, and the city, a marvel of human ingenuity built on a fault line, simply slipped. Vanished. Now it was a tomb, a glittering, lethal trap.

He saw it then, nestled in a collapsed archway, a piece unlike any he'd harvested before. Not part of the city's architecture, but a separate, perfectly formed, deep-sea crystal, naturally faceted, glowing with an internal fire that shifted from sapphire to emerald to amethyst as he approached. It was heavy, dense, and he knew instantly it was what he needed. His heart hammered against his ribs, not from exertion but from a surge of desperate hope. He reached for it, his gloved hand brushing against a sharp, unseen edge of glass, a quick, dull throb. He ignored it, focusing on the prize.

He had to chip it free, carefully, with the small hammer he carried. The sound, muffled by the water, felt like a thunderclap in the vast silence. A tremor ran through the ruined arch. A section above him, a delicate glass latticework, groaned, a low, grinding noise. Instinct screamed at him. He pulled back, the crystal clutched tight, just as a shard the size of his arm broke loose and plunged where his head had been moments before, burying itself in the silty floor. He froze, oxygen bubbling around his faceplate, the ghost of a child's cough rattling in his memory. He pushed off, adrenaline burning, and began his ascent.

The surface felt like a rebirth. He gasped, tearing off the regulator, sucking in the salt-laced air. Lena was there, leaning over the side of the boat, her face a mask of worry, then relief. She didn't speak, just held out a steadying hand as he clambered back aboard, the heavy crystal secure in the net bag. He stripped off the gear, every muscle screaming, his hand throbbing where the glass had pricked him. Lena, without a word, took his injured hand, examining the thin, red line. She brought a damp cloth from a bucket, pressed it gently to the cut. Her touch was soft, familiar.

Later, back in the shack, the crystal sat on their small wooden table, catching the last orange rays of the setting sun, bleeding color into the dim room. It pulsed, a silent, beautiful promise. Lena sketched furiously in her worn notebook, her pencil moving with quick, precise strokes, depicting the glass towers, the silent streets, the impossible beauty her father had described. Elias watched her, the heavy ache in his bones a constant companion. He knew the crystal meant medicine, maybe even a new lamp, but it also meant another dive, another day, the cold, crushing weight of the ocean, the sharp, glittering danger of the city below. He reached out, ran a thumb over Lena's hair, a quiet, rough blessing. She leaned into his touch, her eyes still on the page, drawing the deep, drawing the shimmer, drawing their impossible life.