The sea does not remember who we were. It only remembers the salt we returned, the ships we abandoned, and the slow vocabulary of tides. Every morning it rewrites its own shoreline and calls it truth.
Down here the light arrives as rumour. Blue becomes a verb, then a prayer, then a pressure. Marble statues of an older empire keep sinking, and nobody has told them they are no longer on land.
We call this place mesopelagic because Greek is what we reach for when our own language runs out of depth. 파도 passes. 파도 returns. Every wave is the same wave wearing a different face.