Theory of Whispers

In the delicate breath of dawn, the sea calls out, murmuring tales lost to time.

An echo trapped between ripples, whispered by the moon's gentle pull.

The tide scripts a silent language, inked with salt and sand, known yet forgotten.

Beneath the surface lies a book, written in the dialect of oceans and winds. Only the patient reader discovers its lore.

When time ebbs, so do the thoughts born of waves; transient, spectral, real as nightshade shadows.

The fishermen know, for they have heard it whispered in the voices of their ancestors.