The sea had always spoken to her. As a child, Leila would press her ear to seashells and swear she heard whispers beneath the hush. Now, at forty-three, standing barefoot on the weathered planks of the pier, she felt the same tug in her bones. The ocean was calling again—but this time it was not playful, not gentle. It sounded like grief. That morning, the fishermen came back with nets heavy not with mackerel or cod but with plastic bottles, shredded bags, and ghostly tangles of nylon rope. T...

The sea had always spoken to her. As a child, Leila would press her ear to seashells and swear she heard whispers beneath the hush. Now, at forty-three, standing barefoot on the weathered planks of the pier, she felt the same tug in her bones. The ocean was calling again—but this time it was not playful, not gentle. It sounded like grief. That morning, the fishermen came back with nets heavy not with mackerel or cod but with plastic bottles, shredded bags, and ghostly tangles of nylon rope. T...

Mira had always loved the sound of running water. As a child, she would crouch beside the brook behind her grandmother’s house, cupping her hands in the current, watching dragonflies hover like jeweled guardians. Her grandmother would say, “Remember, child—water is alive. It listens, it remembers, it gives.” At the time, Mira thought it was just one of those soft, strange things elders said. Years passed. The brook thinned into a trickle. Summers grew hotter, and the rain became stingy with i...

Mira had always loved the sound of running water. As a child, she would crouch beside the brook behind her grandmother’s house, cupping her hands in the current, watching dragonflies hover like jeweled guardians. Her grandmother would say, “Remember, child—water is alive. It listens, it remembers, it gives.” At the time, Mira thought it was just one of those soft, strange things elders said. Years passed. The brook thinned into a trickle. Summers grew hotter, and the rain became stingy with i...