The abyss stirs, its voice a cascade of echoes. You speak, but the depths swallow your words whole. In this silence, a chorus of forgotten dreams sings.
"Down here, the clocks twist backward," murmurs a voice, barely above the sound of crumbling coral.
Rusty ships lie entwined with memories, their hulls craving the soft touch of another's hand. Here, the water guards secrets older than time itself.
A broadcast flickers through the static, faint but unmistakable: "... the stars align with whispers of the deep..."
The ocean floor blooms with shadows, dancing to a rhythm known only to the forgotten ones. A lone beacon flashes in the distance, its message encoded in the language of tides.
Your heart drifts with the currents, searching for resonance in the silence. "We are the caretakers of echoes," it seems to chant.