The seal cave waits beneath the tide. Not hidden, only unnoticed. The sea draws back, and the cave exhales, its breath cold with salt and memory.

Stone arches bend like the ribs of some long-dead beast, barnacles clustered like forgotten prayers. Inside, the light does not follow. Only the echo of water, lapping in a rhythm too steady to be chance.

They say the seals once gathered there not as beasts but as something older, shapes shifting between flesh and myth, their eyes reflecting storms that never reached the shore.

A circle of smooth rock lies at the center, worn down by countless bodies sliding from skin to skin, leaving nothing but stories in the dark.

The walls are slick with time. Moss drips like slow thought. You enter, and the sea does not speak. You listen anyway.