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.