Misk floated on the surface, looking at the distant shore. His eyes were good, better than they had been when he was a man. It was early morning; the boats were still lashed to the pier, as his own had always been. Soon the fishermen would come down from their houses, untie them, and make for the open water.
At first he had been desperate to get back, to undo what had been done to him. Now he returned only out of curiosity, nostalgia. He would never be a man again. That was fine: all he needed was down below.
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