Whispers of Weathered Wood

Whispers of Weathered Wood

The hull creaked as the tide washed against its side, though no wind stirred the air. The old boats with their sails long since worn to memory stood silent in the shallows. Their wood once strong and golden had faded into the muted tones of age, blending with the sea’s own weary grey hues. Time had stripped them of sharp lines and clear purpose leaving behind only softened impressions. Echoes of voyages long past.

No one could recall when they had last sailed. They simply remained, their presence more felt than seen as they lingered in the mist that clung to the water’s surface. Fishermen passing at dawn would nod towards them as one acknowledges an old friend, but none dared touch them. The boats were relics with mysterious stories. They were bound within the grain and whispered in creaks and sighs whenever the tide kissed them goodnight.

Perhaps they had once belonged to a lost fleet: ships that had set out in search of gold, adventure, or sanctuary, only to return with nothing but time pressed into their frames. Some swore they had never moved and that they had grown from the water itself; their husks shaped by salt and storm, bound forever to the sea. 

Whatever the truth, the boats endured. Weathered but unbroken. Their presence was not a memory, nor a ghost, but an understanding. An unspoken bond between sea and wood and past and present.

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