Blackwater Islands and by the sea, we're laying down our hopes

This time he was not awakened by water tipped across his lips. It was a whisper — a name, the voice of the shadow.

The man struggled to surface from the deep well the poppies had thrown his mind in to; scratching at the stones, drowning up to his throat.

He managed a gurgle and a turn of his head. The single pupil was a grain of sand.