He stands facing the horizon, where lines meet and diverge, the canvas of the sea painted with shades of blue and time. His hands, weathered like driftwood, trace invisible paths in the air, paths of nets cast wide, waiting for whispers from below.
Every morning, the tide draws a line—an unfinished sentence, perhaps, or a conversation yet to begin. The gulls circle above, punctuation in a narrative written not with ink, but with water and wind.
There’s a rhythm, he says, to the sea. A beat like a heartbeat, a pulse that rises and falls, scripted by the pull of the moon. It's a language as old as earth, where every wave is an echo of something profound.
These waves have seen empires rise and fall, civilizations flourishing on shores now submerged. They remember faces long forgotten, voices lost to the sea’s embrace. And in their depths, secrets linger, waiting for the brave or foolish to seek them.
He pauses, letting silence fill the space between words, allowing the sound of the sea to take precedence. We are both mere listeners, absorbing this ancient dialogue.