You wake, fingertips brushing the surface of what feels like sand slipping through your grip. Memories of yesterday’s whispers follow, lingering on ghostly winds. Have the tides always been this persistent, pressing their weight upon your senses?
In every wave that crashes against the shore of an unseen beach, there's a message. Distant, yet embarrassingly familiar. It's like trying to reach out to an old friend whose voice once soothed you in sleep but now exists only in fragments—an echo hidden between the rustle of leaves and the solitude of night.
And so you wait, watch maybe, as each crest and trough unfolds in the abyss, bringing with it the phantom limb of touch—the ache grows softer, fainter. It adjusts like the silent depths, a beacon of imbalance searching for a new rhythm, a harmony of what was and what could never be.