He stepped onto the waves, each ripple a whisper of dreams from the crests of forgotten beliefs.
The ocean unspooled its stories, edges worn like ancient maps washed astray, echoes of faith drifting upon the tide.
In the luminescence of the aurora, she stood quietly, carrying arms filled with the salt of myriad yesterdays. Together they gazed beyond, to where the horizon melted into the infinite realms of azure and night. Somewhere in the depth of silence held between them lay an unwritten promise, beckoning softly in a voice heard only through half-closed dreams.
As the stars shimmered above, reflecting snippets of their past lives in every flicker, the maiden’s voice, like the scent of rain upon distant shores, whispered stories of sailors lost to time and tide, of voyages set upon beginnings not their own. Perhaps in believing these tales, the fragments of one's self would gather anew, washed clean like the first light of dawn upon the ocean's face.
And yet, here they remain—anchors to the dreams sewn into the fabric of their waking world, threads that yearned to be spun into the tapestry of night again. Across the water, silhouettes danced, specters of memory, intertwining with the rhythm of a pulse older than the land.