I once met an old sailor at the pier. He told stories that sounded too vivid to be dreams. The kind that fog the mind, where you can almost smell the brine from a thousand memories. They weren't his, he insisted, but belonged to the sea itself. His voice dipped and swayed like a lullaby stitched with truth and whimsy.
"Ever seen a whisper?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. "Can't say I have," I replied, curiosity tugging my words. He smiled like an old dog, wise and slightly mad. "Then you've never danced on the edge of history erased twice," he said, nodding towards the crashing waves.
We spoke hours that felt like seconds, wrapped around the sea breeze. And just like that, the sun vanished, leaving behind shadows that seemed eager to hide us. There, in the growing dark, the sailor's whispers became clearer, telling of a world layered atop layers, all locked within whispered tides.