The sea— a book that forgot its words, cradling silence in its deep, slow heart, turns every tide as if turning a page.
Between the lines, the wind slips in, whispering of stories no one remembers.
Before the old door where a single lamp spills warmth, she stops— her fingers tracing memory’s spine, searching for the chapter that once lived in her heart.
“This blue of night,” she murmurs, “binds my past and the dawn yet to come.”
Her white dress sways— dissolving softly into the tender breath of mist.
In her eyes, not waves— but an unborn poem begins to shimmer.
And the lamplight, gentle as a heartbeat, leans closer, trying to read the secret verse that glows within her silence.
