On moonlit nights, where waves whisper secrets untold, the edge of sand and sea hums with voices of the lost.
The fisherman, old as the kelp beds, murmurs of ships adrift in eternal fog – vessels kissing the abyss, never to return.
Lost dreams float on the brine, echoing stories of love and lament, reverberating through the tombstones dispersed along the coastline.
Skeletal trees reach weakly toward the horizon, fingers grasping shadows of a past painted dark with sorrow and silver-tongued promises. Seek deeper.
The sea will claim what is yours in sleep, should your eyes stray too far into its crystalline depths. Beware what you covet, for the depths covet you in return.
Among the ruins of the ancient lighthouse, spirits skate upon the tide, hearts carved from the stone mere whispered in the night breeze. Enter their dance.
Lighthouses flare dimly, souls bound to light's flicker hope against drowning absorption. Their illumination only tasseled fog's stray graspings.
Footprints lead nowhere, vanishing like memories erased upon the chlorinated tides. Their paths girl run, chased by impending thunder.
Behind every swell, a name murmured into mist growing luster, luster uncaring thee, yet fare thy bonds midnight wdrick thames. An invitation lies cold.