“Who heard it first?”
“The evening current carried it, like restless substrate gliding beneath waves...”
“And the mollusk—its obsidian eyes unfathomable—listened, trapped inside its own shell of ages.”
In murmurs more ancient than the seas themselves, they spoke.
“What is the timeline… when moments slip like threads, woven across dark glass horizons—call it forgotten."
The abyss, she sighed, her voice rippling through currents that echoed.
“It is not our burden to decide what this means," one did relent, "the bivalve of years past holds more wisdom.”
Your shadow that greedily lingers—do you fear those whose whispers overthrow mere mortal sighs?