Once, beneath the crescent moon's touch, the Sea whispered secrets to those audacious enough to tread its seeping sands. Here lay hidden echoes of ancient mariners, trapped within an ephemeral loop, forever reaching for the shore.
Among these murmurs was a single story—the tale of footprints that curved unexpectedly; tracing lines eternally leading nowhere, only to return when one dared step into them anew. The seafoam kissed lonely shores, laughing eerily, mingling with the wind—a call echoing through silence.
A voice sometimes trembled in protest, a ghastly whispering of ghostly sailors uncoupled from time, tracing paths never intended, always unseen. Wandering, the remnants of salty breaths infused the air with untold tales of encounters amidst pirate songs guffawing merrily against the moon.
"Wouldn't they be kinder to show their intent?" one might ask. A question as hypothetical as stepping beyond the veil where horizon bleeds into shadow; revealing, should one dare listen, echoes of unredeemed adventures awaiting bold footsteps entwined with fleeting recollections stolen by gulls aloft.
pines curving remember... Tempest's Cry