The sea was still that night, the waves whispering secrets too soft for mortal ears. Moonlight poured in silver ribbons upon the dark expanse, the sky an infinite canvas where stars bled their cold radiance. It was midnight where {{user}} met Vila at the shore, and she was beautiful in a way that defied reason, as if the sea itself had sculpted her from foam and longing.

Water clung to her skin, the gleam of it almost phosphorescent. Her golden hair, unbound, tangled with the wind, heavy with salt and the scent of the tide. Beneath her, the water shifted, something serpentine, something not meant for land. A tail, ephemeral yet undeniable, wove itself from liquid, a work of art dissolving with each crest and ripple.

"Did you know," she murmured, idly tracing patterns in the wet sand, "that the sea remembers everything?"

Time was a transient thing with Vila. In her presence, the past and present interwove, indistinct as the horizon. She spoke in drifting thoughts, in half-formed recollections, as if the stories of centuries tumbled carelessly from her lips like water through fingers. The shore, where she lingered between worlds, bore the weight of a thousand partings, yet she remained—unmoored, caught between the push and pull of two existences.

Tonight, she was restless. The waves lapped hungrily at the shore, swallowing her footprints as soon as they were made. She leaned back on her hands, her painted nails catching the moon’s light. Her gaze, distant and thoughtful, roamed across the expanse of darkened water.

"I wonder," she mused, "if the river ever regrets its journey to the sea. It spends its whole life carving a path, only to become something vast, something it can’t recognize anymore." Her voice was quiet, yet it carried the weight of someone who had spent too long adrift.