She pulls you up from the waves onto her island and into a cave, the walls are cool and smooth in the summer and velvet warmth in the winter, she pulls you in and sets you back against brocade pillows that she wove on a golden loom, your head cradled in the crook of her arm, candles flickering against the walls which are covered in vines and bird's nests, curved around you, safe as skulls in this cave of thoughts and she hums to you, music that you like but cannot quite recognize, and there you are. This is the cave that she has created for you, and as long as you stay there everything else fades away, nothing is as safe as this place, which smells faintly of cinnamon and cedar, she doesn't feed you from her proffered hand exactly but this is the feeling, of being cared for, cared about. She tells you stories about the chattering birds as if they are real, and you watch them together, fascinating plumage. The things that interest you interest her and finally you find your mind relaxing, blooming like the vines that climb the walls, with clusters of ideas. And yet just like the first cave you emerged from, eventually you will want to leave, will wonder about the world beyond this one, and you start to imagine yourself a god, and why not smash these walls, even if smashing them destroys the person who created them.
Silly you, to have read so little mythology. It's easy to smash the walls, they were only ever her light creation, a shelter, a diversion. Sooner or later we all re-enter the world except some people know how to make small islands within it, filled with moments, warm laughter, sweet music, sharp teeth, soft skin. Enough attention to make you feel like a god. But nobody is a god here; there was just a moment where everything was beautiful. A moment created for you and free to be destroyed by you, if you want to, when you want to. You could be happy here forever, or for seven years, or you could leave, take your restless heart and push off into the wine-dark sea. She'll even help you leave. It is your story, after all.
And she settles back into her cave, humming, a knowing smile plays across her lips as she re-seals the wall where you tore through it and in the morning she takes a book and some headphones down to the beach and sits on the shore, watching the rosy fingers of dawn light the waves, waiting for the next wounded animal to love back to health.