The moonbeams cast twisted pathways across the silent sea, each ripple a whispered curse, each wave a word lost to time. Beneath the surface, the shadows coil, waiting patiently for the tide to reveal their ghastly embrace.
The lighthouse stands, a lone watcher in the storm of forgetfulness, its beams scouring the dark depths for signs of life—but finding none, only echoes of mournful cries, borne by the ceaseless wind.
Once, there were voices here, clear as silver bells, now they are mere distortions, signals swallowed by the ebbing ocean. Hear them? Perhaps not, for they speak in tongues ancient and forgotten.
The tides, relentless and indifferent, erase all from the shore. Draw nearer, closer, to the murky veil—you may discern the forms hidden therein, ghostly silhouettes scripted by the eternal waves.
The call of the tides reaches into our dreams, weaving a tapestry of dark and light. To follow it is to embrace the unknown, to step beyond the realm of the living into the realm of shadows.