The sea whispered in half phrases, sentences stranded, on the tip of a silent horizon. Every rise and fall bore fragments of stories, looping over the same course—untold sagas repeating until woven into the sands beneath unnamed islands. As memory played tricks on perception, the flickering lights flashed across reflected twilight, a path leading nowhere.
Each time the cold waves grazed the shore, time replicated like a broken record. Familiar notes—shifting tides, distant warbles—looped, looped, and always repeated. A lighthouse beacon, unmoving through the curt wave shadows, tried in vain to illuminate secrets etched between thousand ripples, circling back as every tide let the unfinished histories resound once more.
Follow the echoes. They guide to chambers unseen, corridors forgotten, winding deeper into the maze where relived fragments dance like phantoms trapped in persistent drift, echoes floundering in ghostly reverberation. But even as they spin, the ebbing flow washes the edges, dragging one ever back to the start, where the sea begins to whisper all over again.