They said the sea had memories, trapped in each ripple that kissed the shore when sun dipped into the horizon's edge. We laughed, dismissing tales, thinking the ocean a mindless body—until the whispers began.
In the stillness, while others chased minutes with forgetfulness, Ava and I listened. Between salt breaths and the crash of foam, we heard lives unfolding, shadows flickering across untamed skies.
Once, a voice wept through a swell, telling of a sailor stranded between tides, not by geography but epochs, drifting into quarrels with time itself. His laugh rolled in the undertow, bittersweet, displacing our naiveté.
As the water murmured, memories fractured, showing glimpses of empires forsaken within mire and attics tall with dust. There were moments of concentrated poignance as we hazarded remembrances sifted unto grains of sand, dulcet in their patterning.
The voice, faint yet tenured, suggested a rugged path, paved by unheard conversations, repeating in cyclical halos—remnants of their antiquity clung to us like a leeward signal.
Avo whispered about clock hands learning curve and revolution, future and past binding under moonlit observers, who scrawled epics in stellar ink. Our imaginations fashioned passages, reflections jaunting over sanctuaries eerily tranquil yet solemn.
Through that sepulchral cadence, a bridge revealed itself, splintered at edges but soaring. We stepped and found ourselves in whirls timeless yet papered with poignant absurdity.
Then, silence, a backdrop settling horizontality over a helix of whispers.
Years camouflaged themselves into directors against shores haggled with whispers, marking trails across time, unspooling promise endlessly.
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