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. The harbor stank of diesel and rotting things that should never have been in the sea. Old Hasan, who had fished these waters for six decades, muttered, “The sea is giving up. She’s tired.” His hands shook as he pulled a half-dead turtle from the mess, its shell scarred with rope burns.

Leila carried the creature to the shallows and felt the trembling beneath its skin. As she set it back in the water, the surf rose suddenly around her calves, a single foaming wave that lingered before breaking. For a breathless moment, she swore it spoke in her mother tongue:

Guard me.

She fell to her knees.

That night, the dreams began.

She dreamt of whales swimming through star-strewn darkness, their songs echoing like cathedral bells. But in her dream, the calls went unanswered, fading into silence. She saw coral beds bleached white as bone, and currents clogged with floating refuse. And she saw herself—small, fragile—standing on the shore with a lantern in hand as a towering wave approached, not to drown her, but to bow before her, as if offering its strength.

When she woke, the sheets were damp with salt, though she had not wept.

The next morning, she went out in her boat alone. The horizon shimmered. She cut the engine and listened. The ocean was not silent—it never was. The crackle of shrimp, the distant splash of a dolphin, the restless beat of the tide. And yet beneath it all was a strain she had never heard before: a note of sorrow, deep and urgent.

Then the sea parted before her with a slow heave. A vast, barnacled back broke the surface—a whale, enormous and ancient. It exhaled with a thunderous plume, the spray glistening like shattered glass in the sun. Leila’s heart stumbled.

The whale circled her boat once, then sank beneath the water. Moments later, she felt it—not with her ears, but in her chest. A sound as deep as the earth itself, a song that vibrated through her bones. In its mournful rise and fall, she heard words without language:

We are drowning in your silence.
Guard us.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. She reached out a trembling hand toward the rolling surface, though the whale had already disappeared. The water shivered against her fingertips, and she whispered back, “I will.”

From that day, she became different. The villagers noticed first. She began collecting not fish but plastic, her boat returning with heaps of it, day after day. At first, they laughed. “Leila’s lost her catch,” they said. But when the children joined her, combing the shore and pulling bags from tide pools, laughter turned to curiosity.

She spoke at the town hall, her voice steady. “The sea is asking for guardians. We cannot keep taking until nothing is left. If we choose differently, she will heal.”

Some scoffed. But others remembered the empty nets, the sickly fish, the storms that seemed to grow wilder each year.

Soon, the village built cages to raise fish sustainably, stopped dumping waste into the harbor, and organized cleanups. The first season was lean. But by the next, schools of sardines shimmered again in the bay, silver ribbons of life returned. The sea seemed to breathe easier.

On the anniversary of her father’s passing, Leila stood on the shore at dusk. The tide was rising, moonlit and restless. She closed her eyes. The foam washed over her feet in a single strong surge, and for the first time in years, it sounded like laughter.

Far out in the deep, a whale breached, its body arcing against the stars before crashing back into the sea. The sound rolled across the water like thunder, like an answer.

She lifted her lantern high.

The wave pulled back, then curled forward, bowing like in her dream.

Not to destroy.
Not to surrender.
But to welcome her—Guardian of the Deep, Keeper of the Connection.

And the sea, vast and eternal, whispered again:

Guard me, and I will guard you.

✨ Ending Note
The ocean is not voiceless—it speaks in tides, storms, and the silence of vanished songs. To become its Guardian is not to be perfect, but to care enough to act. Each hand, each choice, is a ripple. And every ripple becomes a wave.

¸.·´¯`·¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.¸.·´¯`·¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.¸.·´¯`·¸

What is this?

Individual actions, no matter how small, ripple outwards to affect communities, ecosystems, and global wellbeing. These NanoNudgings often appears as a literal or metaphorical "Green Thread".

Found out more in the B:ginning of the free eBook 📗 the 1st Whir

~~~

NOt all in this Whir is generated by ChatGPT, but all Images are generated by Imagen⁴

... and everything is ∞ af bARdisT LennArrrt.se 2025 bARdisT@LennArrrt.xyz

Soli Deo Gloria

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. The harbor stank of diesel and rotting things that should never have been in the sea. Old Hasan, who had fished these waters for six decades, muttered, “The sea is giving up. She’s tired.” His hands shook as he pulled a half-dead turtle from the mess, its shell scarred with rope burns.

Leila carried the creature to the shallows and felt the trembling beneath its skin. As she set it back in the water, the surf rose suddenly around her calves, a single foaming wave that lingered before breaking. For a breathless moment, she swore it spoke in her mother tongue:

Guard me.

She fell to her knees.

That night, the dreams began.

She dreamt of whales swimming through star-strewn darkness, their songs echoing like cathedral bells. But in her dream, the calls went unanswered, fading into silence. She saw coral beds bleached white as bone, and currents clogged with floating refuse. And she saw herself—small, fragile—standing on the shore with a lantern in hand as a towering wave approached, not to drown her, but to bow before her, as if offering its strength.

When she woke, the sheets were damp with salt, though she had not wept.

The next morning, she went out in her boat alone. The horizon shimmered. She cut the engine and listened. The ocean was not silent—it never was. The crackle of shrimp, the distant splash of a dolphin, the restless beat of the tide. And yet beneath it all was a strain she had never heard before: a note of sorrow, deep and urgent.

Then the sea parted before her with a slow heave. A vast, barnacled back broke the surface—a whale, enormous and ancient. It exhaled with a thunderous plume, the spray glistening like shattered glass in the sun. Leila’s heart stumbled.

The whale circled her boat once, then sank beneath the water. Moments later, she felt it—not with her ears, but in her chest. A sound as deep as the earth itself, a song that vibrated through her bones. In its mournful rise and fall, she heard words without language:

We are drowning in your silence.
Guard us.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. She reached out a trembling hand toward the rolling surface, though the whale had already disappeared. The water shivered against her fingertips, and she whispered back, “I will.”

From that day, she became different. The villagers noticed first. She began collecting not fish but plastic, her boat returning with heaps of it, day after day. At first, they laughed. “Leila’s lost her catch,” they said. But when the children joined her, combing the shore and pulling bags from tide pools, laughter turned to curiosity.

She spoke at the town hall, her voice steady. “The sea is asking for guardians. We cannot keep taking until nothing is left. If we choose differently, she will heal.”

Some scoffed. But others remembered the empty nets, the sickly fish, the storms that seemed to grow wilder each year.

Soon, the village built cages to raise fish sustainably, stopped dumping waste into the harbor, and organized cleanups. The first season was lean. But by the next, schools of sardines shimmered again in the bay, silver ribbons of life returned. The sea seemed to breathe easier.

On the anniversary of her father’s passing, Leila stood on the shore at dusk. The tide was rising, moonlit and restless. She closed her eyes. The foam washed over her feet in a single strong surge, and for the first time in years, it sounded like laughter.

Far out in the deep, a whale breached, its body arcing against the stars before crashing back into the sea. The sound rolled across the water like thunder, like an answer.

She lifted her lantern high.

The wave pulled back, then curled forward, bowing like in her dream.

Not to destroy.
Not to surrender.
But to welcome her—Guardian of the Deep, Keeper of the Connection.

And the sea, vast and eternal, whispered again:

Guard me, and I will guard you.

✨ Ending Note
The ocean is not voiceless—it speaks in tides, storms, and the silence of vanished songs. To become its Guardian is not to be perfect, but to care enough to act. Each hand, each choice, is a ripple. And every ripple becomes a wave.

¸.·´¯`·¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.¸.·´¯`·¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.¸.·´¯`·¸

What is this?

Individual actions, no matter how small, ripple outwards to affect communities, ecosystems, and global wellbeing. These NanoNudgings often appears as a literal or metaphorical "Green Thread".

Found out more in the B:ginning of the free eBook 📗 the 1st Whir

~~~

NOt all in this Whir is generated by ChatGPT, but all Images are generated by Imagen⁴

... and everything is ∞ af bARdisT LennArrrt.se 2025 bARdisT@LennArrrt.xyz

Soli Deo Gloria