*THE TALE OF THE LOST ISLAND*
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CHAPTER ONE
The sea had always called to Eliot in strange ways—but this time, the call felt louder, almost like a whisper threading through the crashing waves. He stood barefoot on the shoreline, the evening tide curling around his ankles with the chill of something ancient.
The town of Greyfog Hollow had always lived with its back to the ocean. The fishermen spoke of currents that shifted without reason, of compasses that spun uselessly near a certain part of the coast, and of boats swallowed without a trace. Yet Eliot, a marine cartographer and seeker of lost coasts, had come precisely because of those stories.
His father used to talk in fragments—half-memories and riddles—about a hidden island that existed beyond maps. An island whose presence could only be sensed, never seen, unless it wanted to be found. His final words before vanishing were carved into the back of an old compass Eliot now kept in his pocket:
> "You'll know you're close when the sea forgets its name."
Eliot didn't understand it then. But now, standing by the misty shore, with wind brushing past like breath on skin, he could swear he heard something.
Not words exactly—but a pull. A presence. A whisper in the waves.
Far in the distance, gulls circled something unseen. The sky turned the color of bruised metal, and as he squinted into the fog, Eliot thought he saw a flicker of land—impossible and distant. Then it vanished.
Behind him, the town clock struck midnight.
The sea sighed.
And Eliot stepped forward.
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