They won’t believe me. Not truly. But I must write it down before the memory softens at the edges. Before it slips into the realm of dreams, where it does not belong. Her face must remain sharp. It was dusk—three nights past—when the wind dropped too suddenly, and the gulls began their tight, silent wheeling inland. I was just a mile from shore, hauling in an uninspired catch, when I noticed the sea was moving wrong. Not choppy. Not storming. Just... spiraling. As though some