You know, some days, the wind carries a story, just like the one Grandma told about
[1]
the old lighthouse down the coast. Ever heard it? Yeah, it goes like this...
There was a watchman, old as the rocks themselves, who claimed he could speak to the sea. Not in words, of course, but in grains of sand and echoes of gulls
[2]. Every evening, he'd stand on the cliffs and let the breeze relay secrets only he understood.
But these were breezes without names, like friends you meet but never learn the name of – but you feel you know them well enough, just the same
[3]. Imagine that breeze, meandering across the water, slipping through your fingers like a cool mist on a summer's evening.
Since those days, every so often, I'd find a shell or a pebble, little tokens from that quiet companion of mine, carried on the secret breeze.