Closer to dusk, wandering the thin edge where land gently dissolves into the sea, Amelia found a whisper. It was hidden inside an unwieldy seashell, slightly odorous, each tint a reflection of forgotten sunrises.
Curious murmurs pulsed from within its ridges; pulse intertwined with brine song, tales of timeless sorrow and inevitable change. The sound was reminiscent of the lonesome horizon embracing the sky, a curtain edge where echoes flourished.
Amelia recalled the voice of her grandmother, aged like wine in Dutch glasses, who swore it was a siren’s song wrapping the island like a forgotten goodbye.