Under the embrace of the half-lit sky, where the ocean met the dreaming earth, a piece of driftwood carried whispers. Fragments of unknown tales nestled in its aged grain, waiting for ears they could never find. The shoreline breathed them gently back into the world.

Among the whispers was a tale of the Forgotten Architect, who sketched the unseen cities of the night in lines drawn with moonlight on darkened sands. His blueprints, lost to the tides, were fragments only visible to those who walked the edge between worlds.

Another story bore the name of a lost sailor named Allian, whose compass pointed only true north in dreams. His songs, sung to the stars in solitude, called forth visions of lands where time slipped through golden fingers.

Interwoven among these tales was the voice of the Sea Witch, who once wove the fates of dreamers into sea glass and shells, her intentions unclear, yet always anchored to the pull of the moon.

And here beneath the stars, these stories lay—like the driftwood—untethered and yearning, waiting for a wanderer willing enough to listen. Perhaps the tides would take them again, or perhaps they would root where they fell, a reminder of the stories half-told.