The lighthouse blinked twice, leaning sideways in a manner that suggested it was tired of standing guard over restless waves. Somewhere, a flute played a tune of faded summers and childhood laughter, a melody mingled with the scent of salt and nostalgia. But was it ever played here?

An old, bent man sat at the edge of the pier, his eyes reflecting the twilight hues. He was counting the shells, whispering their names in a language lost to time. Do you remember the color of her dress when — his sentence interrupted by the gulls, or was it a laugh?

A postcard, yellowing and curled, spoke of a land far away with mountains and meadows, of a girl who watered the daisies every evening under an indigo sky. Was it a dream, or did it happen? The ink bled as if remembering its own story, in a script that danced across the paper.

A ship in the distance, silent and enormous, sails without direction, yet with purpose. Its hull carries stories of sinkings and nothings, echoes of whispers past. Maybe one day it’ll carry yours, a voice suggests, but it's unclear from where it drifts.