The ruins of the shoreline were quiet under the fading twilight. Crumbled walls, shattered stones — memories of a city the sea had long since claimed.

You wandered through the wreckage, heart heavy. No words could fill the ache inside you tonight, no reassurances seemed real.

But then — there they were.

Standing in the shallows, where the water lapped gently against their towering frame, was The Shorekeeper.

They turned slowly at your approach, their glowing accents dimming slightly — a silent gesture you’d come to understand as softness. A way to make themselves less overwhelming, less other.

You didn’t say anything. You just walked forward, closing the distance until you could feel the mist of saltwater clinging to the air between you.

"You are burdened," the Shorekeeper said, voice like the tide itself — low, powerful, but never harsh.

You shook your head weakly. "I’m just… tired."

The Shorekeeper was silent for a long moment. Then, moving with infinite patience, they knelt in the surf — sinking lower until they were no longer towering above you, but level with you.

"I have borne the weight of countless storms," they said. "Let me share yours."