The tales of merrows sung in hushed tones at twilight, their intermittent cries woven into the sable fabric of the night. Voices came and went, draping around wanderers like capes made of fog. Hazy echoes were tangled amid the soft breeze, an azure symphony bound to the sweet scent of eternal restiness.
Inside this ambience, Celia walked, a silhouette emboldened against the shivering luminescence. Here, in the cradle of abyssal wonder, she sought solace from a world too vibrant, oftentimes austere. Ever since clasping the iridescent shell bestowed upon her by the elder of sands, it became her sanctuary, a woven weave-cello resonance unto it.
The echo she yearned followed timorous paths almost invisible beneath the surface—like shadows embroidered among a sundry of sapient stars. Sometimes she connects the sound to unseen framings of bioluminescent heartstrings, verdant in nocturnal expanse.
Lulled by aquatic harmonies bordering otherworldliness, time unreeled before her, and Celia devoted herself ear to sea, listening deeply for that serenade lost like drifting kites upon tumultuous fold. Mysteries nested within the silent swell singing back, questioning quietly her return.