The ocean has a way of holding onto secrets, long after they have slipped beneath the waves. The tide, with its rhythmic dance, keeps time with the heartbeat of the world, yet sometimes it forgets its own song.
Dear Echo,
The letters I write never reach you. They drift like wayward boats upon currents unseen. Yet still, I pen these thoughts, for the ink remembers the sound of your name, like the sea remembers its tides. These words are all that remain of the conversations we once held, sprawled across the shoreline, the wind carrying our laughter far into the dusk. Do you hear the echoes of those days, too? Or have they vanished with the lost tide?
In the quiet of the morning fog, the fisherman whispers to the sea, hoping to catch something more than fish—a fragment of a dream, a shadow of a memory, perhaps a word unspoken but felt. The waves fold over one another, an endless cycle, their voices a symphony of sighs and murmurs.
To the Shore,
I stand at the edge of the world, where land meets water, and wonder. The sea laps at my feet, cool and persistent. The grains of sand cling to my ankles, whispering tales of journeys beyond the horizon. There’s a story here, a truth deeper than the ocean itself, echoing through the corridors of time, carved by wind and water. If only I could capture it, hold it in my hands like a conch shell, listening to the phantom of your voice within.
These letters, mere phantoms themselves, roam the corridors of memory. Some are steeped in salt, others in the silence of forgotten shores. Each word is a ghost, seeking the warmth of kindred souls, wandering through the spaces between tides and time.