As twilight shed its velvet ignorance, the whispers began their annual migration.
"Do you hear the footsteps on the searing sand?" one voice lamented, its hue blending into the gravel.
The lighthouse stood firm, yet it trembled silently, addressing neither the lost clamor of one nor the stillness of another.
Inside its heart, the light flickered in solemn acknowledgment, a beacon not of guidance but of unintended reunions.
...
Follow the echoes