The waves speak in hushed reveries, a symphony of time's gentle caress. In the realm of tides, we find the mosaic of lost dreams, stitched by the hands of the wind.
"Do you remember the song of the clouds?" she asked, her voice a drift of mist.
We gather beneath the old lighthouse, where the sun kisses the horizon with golden farewells. Shadows dance upon the sand, fleeting as the memories they conjure.
The Pacific breathes a canvas, where colors bleed into each other, an embrace of night and dawn.
Whispers of the Dunes