In the shrouded gloaming, the sea murmurs an ancient tongue, woven by the moon's ceaseless grip. Its songs—oh, how they waver— beckoning the lost souls who tread their desolate paths upon the trembling sands.

Here lies the barrier, where sound succumbs to the vast embrace of salt and shadow. The abyss inhales, and so the tide scripts a dirge, harmonized by none but the living echoes of forgotten time.

One could stand upon this bleak precipice and witness the phenomena—the glistening ripples of silence, a shroud thicker than velvet night.