By the time the tide surrendered its secrets, the Wandering Siren had become a tomb of echoes.

Whispers stitched together from shadows, woven amid the seafoam:

"Beneath the decks of this forgotten vessel, where barnacles keep their vigil, there lies a book told in wax and ash."

Only the gulls knew the tales of clandestine meetings, borrowed lives hidden amongst tangled nets. Figments of Echoes answered back in solemn hyaline voices.

And the tides, they roll. Guardians and prisoners alike of old tales. Stories shift as materials were lost to the water's embrace.

"Sand and salt render your memory to weave upon the eternal loom." — An inscription found within matted lilies and sea-wrack.

Look to the horizon, and the winds carry riddles: Murmurs of Currents, they say, where time folds upon itself.

So we wait, the lore keepers of marooned whispers, as shadows dance along the fragmentary edges of the tide's eternal report.