They say the ship wasn’t always on the surface. That long ago, it belonged to the depths—gliding silently beneath the water like a secret. But one day, it forgot how to sink. I came across it by accident. The tide was low and I was walking past the salt marsh. There it was: wood bleached by years, anchor rusted and half-buried in silt, yet still drifting, inch by inch. It moved like a dream that wasn’t ready to end. I walked beside it for hours, saying nothing. Not because I didn’t have questions— but because I was afraid it might answer.

The bottle was small and green, like the kind you’d keep a message in if you wanted it to last. I almost missed it, caught in the rocks. Inside: a water-stained scrap of paper, with only seven words still legible: “I’m still here. The sea remembers me.” I turned the bottle over and over in my hands. It had no name. No origin. But somehow, it felt like a reply. I never saw the ship myself, only heard the stories. But now I believe it exists. And I believe—if I write back—maybe the sea will remember me, too.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The bottle sat on my windowsill, the paper curled like a sleeping creature inside. The moonlight turned the glass almost silver, as though it had been carved out of the night itself. I kept wondering how far it had traveled—how many hands it might have passed through before reaching mine, or if the sea itself had cradled it all this way, refusing to let it sink. The wind outside carried the smell of salt and kelp, and each time I closed my eyes, I imagined waves rolling endlessly over an unseen shape, carrying a memory toward me. By morning, I had decided. I bought a cheap fountain pen from the harbor shop. The clerk wrapped it in brown paper as if it were something precious. I told myself it was for work, but we both knew I was lying. Back home, I dug out a sheet of thick stationery from an old drawer—the kind that could survive years if folded and kept dry. It took me an hour to write anything. Seven words had been enough for them. Seven words might be enough for me. So I wrote: **“I’m listening. The sea has found me.”** I rolled the paper tight, slid it into the bottle, and screwed the cap on as firmly as my hands would allow. The glass felt heavier now, as if it carried something more than my words. At the edge of the pier, I hesitated. The tide was calm, but I could feel the pull beneath, the steady rhythm of a current that seemed to be waiting for me. For a moment, I wondered if whoever read this might feel the same unshakable pull I did. Then I let it go. The tide caught it gently, turning it once, twice, before carrying it out into the open water— as though it had been expected all along.

The morning the sky broke open in light, I saw it. A ship, pale and still, drifted toward the shore like a memory trying to return. It made no sound. It cut no waves. I stood barefoot on the sand, and the tide curled around my ankles like it was listening. The ship bore no sails. No name. No crew. But inside, I swear I heard a voice—soft, childlike, humming a song I had never learned but somehow knew. My grandmother once told me, “If you hear the sea sing, it’s remembering.” I think that day, it was.