"Well, the world was different then," the old man's voice creaked, sounding like the wind through forlorn masts. "Before the dikes and canals took these waters. It was a world of tides and currents, not this dried sea." He looked toward the horizon, where water had once brushed against the cobblestone streets.
Laughter echoed faintly from somewhere deep within the city’s couplings. Perhaps it belonged to artisans who worked on unseen repairs, stitches that held together an old ship or a withered man on helm.
Seagulls, their cries cloaked in memory, narrated the absence of youth when any wind carried forward the idea of escape. What did they whisper? Only the wind knew, but it was more than content only to listen.
The voices unravel the fabric amidst memories that fade like a vessel at anchor. Perhaps they hold pieces of truth concealed behind sailing knots and forgotten passages of daring youth.
You find remnants of someone's dream washed ashore, a fragment glowing silver yet as barren and still as the tide.
Continue your exploration: Treasures on the Tide
or discover: Wenches and Songs