The sandy stretch whispered secrets between grains, a dialogue known only to the wind and the lingering dusk. The tide wrote its epistles on the shore, inked in saltwater and foam, yet the stories were never shared, just swallowed by the next wave.
There she sat, Amara, ink-stained heart tracing the shorelines in search of lost chronicles. With each careless breeze, the fragments of her dreams danced like threads caught in the loom of ocean’s mercy. Here, among obsidian rocks and scattered shells, she remained — a mere spectator of the transient theatre.
"What do you say, sea?" she mused, her voice barely a ripple in the vast embrace. The water, agitated with longing, beckoned to her in a dialect only memory could translate. It was endless, a monologue of swells scripting an eternal silence, louder than a storm's roar yet profound like whispered truths.
Listen Closer