There’s an undulation beneath the brine, a swell unseen for years. Fishermen whisper of tales, of songs lingering in the night air, calls from a place beyond their understanding.
In the mornings, when mist clings to the shore, the old woman with the silver-streaked hair stands by the gnarly rocks, eyes fixed on the horizon. She speaks to the seabirds as if they were her kin, a voice soft yet confident, words woven with the rhythm of the waves.
"Time is but a strand, my child, knotted into the fabric of what you see and know. Beyond it lies the spectral, beyond it sings the unseen.”
The locals claim she knows where the water parts to reveal the shore of another world—the world of the mystic wave. Only she knows how to navigate it, guided by the pull of the moon and whispers of the sea.
Children steal glances at this secretive dance, their laughter echoing against the cliffs, unaware that the sea is listening and waiting, holding its breath in the lull between waves.