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.