Whispers in the Abyss
In a silent trench where the sun's lament dims, the creatures hum songs of forgotten coral castles. Riptides cradle ancient resolutions, drifting like unclaimed memories.
"I have seen the anchorages of time," the cephalopod spoke, ink stained and moonlit. "In the secret den where neither man nor beast dares tread, history loops like a siren's lament."
Commodore Anemone had captured phosphorescent echoes in a bottle. "These belong to light beings," she declared, fleet clad in seaweed. "We must traverse oral paths to their gated chasms."
There was nostalgia in whale songs, an echo reverberating through their cerulean corridors, propelling vague recollections of mariners’ tales—names wrapped, voices well-spun, lingering.