The Coral Compass of Pelagia

Eli liked the way sunlight broke into coins on the skin of the dome and spilled down across the bubble streets. Every morning the city of Pelagia woke with a soft hum, pumps pushing fresh water through the coral gardens, the smell of brine and iodine floating in the air. Vendors drifted along canals in slow scooters, selling sea grapes and hot kelp cakes from warm tins. Manta shadows crossed overhead like moving clouds. Eli stood on the maintenance balcony with a wrench in his palm, the metal warm from his skin. His father, Raul Moreno, tightened a rusted gasket and grunted.

'Hand me the clamp, fishbone.'

Eli passed it over. He liked the nickname. He could slip through pipes like a silver fish, quick and quiet. He was ten, narrow as a reed, with a halo of dark curls that always refused a comb. The gasket hissed, then settled. Raul leaned back and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

'Good. No leaks.' He squeezed Eli’s shoulder. 'School, then workshop. And no hanging around the salvage docks. The Council posted a warning.'

'I wasn’t going to,' Eli said, and tried to sound like he meant it. The salvage docks smelled like old rope and stories, and he loved them. He tucked his notebook into his vest. The first page showed a map he had drawn from memory: kelp forests like green cathedrals, the yawning dark of the trench, a spiral marked with a question mark.

A bell chimed down the column. The city slid into the day. Eli ran along the walkway, past a stall where a woman roasted seaweed into crisp rolls, past the algae pools that glowed a faint green. He pressed his nose to the glass of the Museum of Pelagic Time. Inside, under soft lights, sat the thing he loved most: the Coral Compass. It was a disc of ancient coral and hammered brass, veined with pink and gold. People said it listened to whale songs and turned of its own accord when the currents changed. Eli had watched it for hours once and swore he saw it tremble like a sleeping fish.

Dr. Hana waved from the museum door. She was tall and wiry, with a streak of white in her black hair, smelling of salt and old books. 'Late again, Moreno?' she called.

'Never late for maps,' he said, grinning. He loved her class, the way she drew circles in the air to explain gyres and told stories of currents that carried seeds across oceans like letters.

'Bring your notebook after,' she said. 'I want to see the trench drawing.'