Swallowed by the Whirlpool

At first, it was just the slightest tug at my feet, inviting in its subtlety. I remember the chill creeping up, a slow dance of currents around my ankles, each ripple a promise—or was it a warning? After a while, you almost learn to embrace it, that steady pull toward nowhere, asking nothing in return.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I swear I can hear whispers in the current: tales of sailors lost and found, dreams faltering in the deep. It's not always comforting, but loss rarely is.

The truth is that where there's an undercurrent, there's always something churning beneath the surface. It has its own language, one that I haven't quite managed to decipher. It waits for you to dive beneath, to look beyond what meets the eye.

The Haunting Whistle of the Winds
Shadowed Crests in the Depths