Somewhere beyond the tangible sea, in the interstice of senses and time, danced a phantom wave. This wave whispered of ancient tales, murmuring in a tongue lost to the living. Upon its crest, ghosts of past mariners painted the horizon with vibrant colors of recollection, long after their shadows faded from the sand.
These waves were not just water and foam; they carried fragments of stories, like puzzle pieces waiting to be assembled. Each ripple held a memory, etched in time's quiet margins, scripted by souls navigating their own seas.
Below the surface, a current of purpose flowed, unnoticed by the eyes above. It was a gentle force, persistent and patient, marking its course through the shadows of the deep. Perhaps you would find it if you listened intently to the whispers of the tide.