Amidst the tangles of kelp and floating plastics, I stumbled upon a whispering current—soft echoes of conversations long forgotten. They spoke not in words defined, but in the rhythm of waves washing over an uncharted seabed.
I traced the final murmur: "It's in the elaboration...", barely audible, swallowed by depths unmeasured. What was it that needed further explaining? Perhaps a story, or a promise we forgot to keep.
Listening to the ocean's pulse, I remember the voices I never knew. "We are here, we always have been," one voice assured. Was it a call to arms, or a reminder of presence?
The words left an ache akin to yearning, though they belong to no specific time, no anchored place. There’s an obligation in hearing these cries, a tether to hold onto even as reality slips like grains through fingertips.