In the still morning mist, the boat made no sound. The world around it was an orchestra of silence, where only thoughts echoed. Elsewhere, the waters churned with memories of salt and departure, each wave a letter unwritten, each splash a story untold.

"There are places we travel, only to discover we've been there before—in dreams perhaps, or in the aching recollection of a face half-seen under the glow of a lantern on a misty shore."

As we journeyed through the currents of our own reminiscences, we spoke little. There was comfort in the shared silence, a kind of understanding that needed no words. Only the gentle movement of the boat, and the inevitable pull of the tide, mapped the contours of our thoughts.

"Sometimes, the return is sweeter than the journey itself. For in coming back, we find the strength to break away again, if only to find ourselves anew."

Such is the voyage of life, perhaps, a series of resets at the edges of horizon and memory. And with each reset, we find not a place of refuge, but a point of reflection—awaiting the next unknown. The empty sea, its vastness both daunting and liberating, beckoned.