Before the last whisper fades

The waves are restless today.
They carry a song that isn't a song.
Glassy, ​​wailing... as if the world across the water were calling out to its own.

I sit down on the wet stones.
I take off my glasses.
The fog blurs the boundaries of the world-it's finally like a dream.

Perhaps more real.

I reach out my hand, as if I could touch the horizon.

"I wish you would all just... go away," I say to no one. To everyone. To myself.

"I wish for silence."

For a moment, I truly believe the ocean is listening to me.

And then something appears on the shore.

Not something.

Someone.

A very emaciated figure.

Wet.

Hair plastered to his face.
Clothing torn, as if torn by the waves.

But it wasn't the water that created him.

It's a ghost.

The fisherman everyone said goodbye to three winters ago.

He stands before me.
Empty.
Dead.
And yet... he watches.

And when he opens his mouth, I hear no voice.

Only one, a drawn-out whisper, cold as steel:

"He who has no heart is coming."