On the isle where the waves fold into whispers, there exists a light — not of this world. They call it luminosity, a dance of ghostly fireflies that never die. Here, time is but an echo, and every tick is a tear in the fabric of reality, lingering on the edges like the wails of the forsaken.
By the cliffs, ancient stones cradle secrets in their creases, murmuring tales of sailors lost to the glow. Drawings and scribbles in the sand possess a life of their own, erasing and rewriting the history etched in saltwater and shadow. It is a canvas for the forgotten, a tapestry of lost moments — doodles in the margins of time.
The air tastes of brine and bitterness, a reminder of promises made and broken. Seagulls cry, but their song is hollow, reverberating through the marrow of the earth. Night falls, and the island breathes — a slow rhythm, a lullaby to the unfathomable depth beneath. We all sleep, but waking feels a curse, for in dreams, we see the truth: the luminosity guides us, not home, but deeper.