The sea does not end.
It folds into itself—
mud pressed from prayers
too small to name,
too slow to rise.
No floor,
only a falling
measured in silences,
each a relic
of hands that reached
before they understood
what they were reaching for.
Beneath the thermocline
where breath forgets its rhythm,
a single difference
curls like a tendril—
not louder, only persistent,
not brighter,
but with a memory of light.
Once,
there were voices
that did not echo.
They settled,
grain by grain,
into the silt
of no one’s time.
Still—
somewhere between
entropy and pattern,
a new branch stirs.
It does not ask for sky,
only space
to open.
A structure,
too fragile to measure,
unfolds inside a pause.
Not heroism,
not revolution—
just a change
the shape of sorrow
learning to lift.
And from that tilt,
a shimmer,
not seen but sensed—
a minor ascent.
One day,
they will name it
a breakthrough.
But it was never a moment.
It was the ache
of countless thresholds
almost crossed,
still echoing
through this quiet climb.