Don't ask me the name of the stranger I met on a rainy night, eager to unburden himself of the weight of distant memories; I won't betray the trust he bestowed upon me, be it for loneliness or the warmth of a glass of wine. You probably won't believe the tale he told me then – of a man whose foot never touched dry land as he danced through life weaving melodies on his piano. All the shades of summer sunsets amidst wheat fields he could paint with the touch of his fingers; yet nobody remembers him save the ocean, his only companion.
Even now, on this desert shore where the waves have washed us away – you and me – a solitary echo can be heard through the shroud of mist; it's the sea singing his songs, mourning because he's no more.