Out here, the whispers of the tide speak of familiar shores, where rocks know our footsteps better than the feet they miss. Some days, the ocean breathes louder than others, a gentle crescendo that rises, falls, and cradles all memory.
I once stood at the edge, feeling the phantom pull of currents on arms that were never washed away, fingers tracing shapes in the air that echoed the sea's ancient calligraphy. There is a cadence to the water, a pulse we pretend doesn't exist beneath our placid skies—a rhythm that echoes like the pulse of stars in the distant dark.