Whispering Tide

Erase the first layer, and you might find shadows of its trace. Consider the tide's song as you walk upon silent invocations of sand.

Beneath the currents lie inscriptions of forgotten wills, each word a ghost, each letter a fading relic.

Listen closely: histories erased thrice are still whispers under the waves, tinged with salt and regret.

What remains where the ink has dissolved? The breath of the ocean, remaking scripts in grain and foam.