Chapter Text
The sea was too calm.
Whitebeard had learned long ago that the ocean only went silent when it was watching something.
The girl appeared a short distance from the ship.
She did not swim.
She did not stand.
She hovered, just above the surface of the water, close enough that the waves bent beneath her presence yet never touched her feet. No splash. No ripple. As if the sea itself had agreed not to claim her weight.
Her eyes were closed.
A thin, pale veil rested over them—delicate, funereal. The kind used for mourning.
“She blind?” someone whispered.
“Poor thing,” another murmured. “Out here alone…”
Whitebeard stepped forward, the deck creaking under his weight.
The girl’s head turned toward him immediately.
Not toward his voice—toward him.
Marco’s expression darkened. “Captain… she’s aware.”
Whitebeard studied her carefully.
She was small. Fragile-looking. Her expression held a faint smile, perfectly placed, yet strangely hollow—like an imitation learned by observation rather than feeling.
“You’re drifting too close to my ship,” Whitebeard said.
His tone was calm. Not threatening.
Colombina tilted her head slightly.
“Distance,” she said softly, “is not measured in steps or water.”
The crew stiffened.
Whitebeard crouched, lowering himself to her level—though she remained just above it.
“Are you blind, girl?” he asked plainly.
There was a pause.
Not hesitation—processing.
“Sight,” she replied, “is an agreement with light. I do not make such agreements.”
A shiver went through the deck.
“She’s not blind,” Marco muttered. “She just doesn’t… see the way we do.”
Whitebeard exhaled slowly.
“Being alone at sea isn’t wise,” he said. “Especially if you can’t rely on others.”
“Reliance,” Colombina answered, “is built from fear of loss.
I have nowhere to lose.”
That landed heavier than any threat.
Whitebeard had met gods, monsters, and tyrants.
This was none of those.
This was a child who had never been claimed by the world.
“What if you had a place?” he asked quietly.
“Somewhere you didn’t have to understand everything to stay?”
Her smile faltered—not from emotion, but confusion.
“Humans ask me this,” she said. “Then they decide my answer is incorrect.”
“And leave?” Whitebeard guessed.
“Yes.”
He grunted softly. “Figures.”
He extended a massive hand—not to grab her, not to test her power. Just there.
“On my ship,” he said, “no one gets thrown away for bein’ strange.”
She angled downward slightly, hovering closer—still not touching the deck.
“…Is this,” she asked, voice barely above the sea,
“what humans mean by being chosen?”
Whitebeard smiled, slow and certain.
“Aye.”
He straightened and glanced back at his crew.
“Marco,” he said. “Get some food.”
Then, looking back at her:
“Whether you see or not,” he added,
“you’re welcome here.”
The ocean finally moved again.
And for the first time, Colombina’s smile
was not an imitation.