Speaker 1: Hello there, I'm your storyteller for tonight. Take a slow
breath in through your nose and gently let it out.
Let your shoulders soften, let your hands rest. You've arrived
in a quiet moment, and you don't need to do
anything at all. You are safe, You are welcome. Here
tonight will drift into a gentle world, one shaped by
calm and soft imagination. Let your breath steady, let your
thoughts grow lighter, settle in, and allow the story to begin.
The plane descended through a clear blue sky, tracing a
soft arc above the coastline of Mayorka. Below, the sea
shimmered in endless tones of turquoise and deep green, the
sunlight breaking across the surface like moving glass. Ben leaned
toward the window, watching as the island came into view,
its cliffs, its whitewashed villages, and the narrow inlets that
curved into quiet coves. He had ridden about beaches all
over the world, yet this place felt different before he
had even landed, something about the light, the air, the
sense of stillness that hovered above the water. When the
plane touched down and the doors opened, warm Mediterranean air
filled the cabin. It smelled faintly of salt and sun
baked stone. Ben stepped into it with a slow contentment
of someone who had nowhere else to be. He collected
his small bag, rented a car, and drove east toward
the coast, following a road lined with olive trees and low,
dry stone walls that glowed gold in the afternoon light.
By the time he reached Porto Cristo, the sun was
beginning to lower. The town was small and folded gently
around a sheltered harbour, where fishing boats rocked in rhythm
with the tide. The buildings stood close together, their shutters
painted soft shades of blue and green. He parked near
the pier and walked the last stretch, his shoes clicking
softly against the stones. Children's laughter echoed from the quay,
and somewhere nearby a radio played a slow, happy tune.
Ben had rented a small room above a cafe that
overlooked the water. The place was simple, white walls, linen curtains,
the faint scent of coffee drifting up from below. He
placed his notebook on the table by the balcony and
leaned out over the railing. The sea stretched out before him.
Perfectly calm, its surface marked only by the faint wake
of a fishing boat returning to shore. He stayed there
for a long while, listening to the quiet sounds of
the harbor, the water lapping against wood, the muffled clink
of glass from the cafe terrace, the distant hum of
a scooter climbing the hill. For someone who spent his
life describing the world, Ben found it difficult to put
into words how peaceful this place felt. It wasn't simply beautiful,
it was still. It invited you to breathe slower, to
think less. As the evening deepened, he walked along the
harbour path. The stones still held the day's warmth beneath
his feet. He passed the fishermen mending nets, their hands
moving with practiced ease, and the scent of grilled side
drifted through the air. He greeted them quietly, and though
they spoke little English, their smiles were enough to make
him feel at home. At the far end of the
pier stood a small lighthouse. He sat near it and
watched as the light began to blink across the water.
From this distance he could see where the cliffs curved
around to the east, steep, pale and full of shadows.
Somewhere beyond those cliffs, he remembered reading, were the caves
of drach Vast, underground chambers filled with clear blue water.
It was said that they echoed like a song when
the tide rose. He made a note in his journal,
explore the caves, listen for the sea. The words look
simple on paper, but they stirred something in beside him.
He wasn't here just to write about sand or sunlight.
He was here to find a feeling he couldn't name yet,
a kind of stillness he had lost somewhere between deadlines
and flights. When he returned to his room, the last
light was fading from the sky. He opened the window wide,
letting in the scent of salt and jasmine. From below,
the sound of soft guitar music floated up, mingling with
the rhythm of waves against the harbor wall. He sat
at the small desk wrote for a while, then stopped,
not because he was tired, but because the night outside
was too beautiful to ignore. The moon rose pale above
the sea. Boats swayed gently in the dark water, their
lights flickering like small patient stars. Ben rested his head
against the window frame and listened to the time, each
wave arriving and leaving with perfect calm. He imagined the
caves beneath the cliffs, the hidden rooms, the echoing pools,
the ancient silence waiting in the dark. Tomorrow he would
find them. For now, the night belonged to the sound
of the sea and the soft warmth of air that
felt like home. The morning came bright and slow, with
sunlight spilling through the white curtains and the distant cool
of gulls drifting over the harbour. Ben rose early, still
feeling the warmth of the air from the night before.
Below his window, fishermen were preparing their boats, voices low
and steady, nets coiling like quiet patterns on the deck.
The smell of salt and coffee reached him, familiar and comforting.
He spent the early hours walking along the narrow streets,
his notebook tucked beneath his arm. Shutters opened one by one,
and light fell in golden rectangles across the walls. The
town was small enough to feel personal. Everywhere he turned
he could hear the sea, sometimes close, sometimes only as
an echo behind the houses. He stopped at a cafe
shaded by a lemon tree, ordered an espresso and watched
the light flicker through the leaves. While he was writing,
a voice spoke beside him, smooth and lightly accented. You're
the writer who came from London, aren't you. Ben looked up.
A woman stood near the counter, dark hair tied loosely,
a diving mask slung from her wrist. Her expression was calm,
but curious. I am, he said, Is it that obvious?
She smiled. In a town this small, everyone notices new faces,
especially ones who stare at the sea as if it's
speaking to them. Her name was Isler. She ran the
small diving school near the edge of the marina, offering
lessons and tours for visitors who wanted to see the
reefs and caves below the cliffs. When she spoke, her
tone carried the quiet rhythm of someone used to water, unhurried,
measured soft. Ben found himself telling her why he was there,
that he wrote about beaches and travel, but mostly about
what places felt like. He mentioned the caves of Drach,
how he'd read they had underground lakes, and that sometimes
people said they sang. Isla tilted her head slightly. They do,
she said, not in the way you think. When the
tide moves through them, the sound changes. It's like breath.
Some call it music. He closed his notebook. Have you
been there many times? She said, I can take you
tomorrow if you like. The water will be clear after
this week's calm. He hesitated, unsure whether he was agreeing
to a dive or to something he didn't yet understand,
But the quiet confidence in her eyes told him that
she knew these waters in a way few people did.
I'd like that, he said. Finally. She nodded, once, meet
me at the pier after sunrise. Bring nothing heavy. The
sea prefers travelers who pack light. When she left, he
watched her walk down the harbour path toward a line
of small boats. Her pace was unhurried, her steps steady,
as though she was already part of the tide. The
morning went on, but the rhythm of her words lingered
in his thoughts. That afternoon, Ben rented a small motorbike
and explored the cliffs above the town. The road wound
between olive groves and stretches of open land where cicadas
sang in waves of sound. From the top, he could
see the whole curve of Porto Cristo, the fishing boats,
the quiet beach, and far beyond the endless blue of
the Mediterranean. Somewhere below, hidden beneath the limestone, waited the
cave's Isla had spoken of. He stopped at a viewpoint
and sat on the low wall, watching the sea glimmer
under the heat. A breeze moved through the dry grass,
and the faint roar of the surf echoed up from
the rocks. He thought again of the phrase she had used,
The sea prefers travelers who pack light. It felt like
advice meant for more than luggage. When he returned to town,
the evening light had softened to amber. Children played near
the harbor, tossing small stones that rippled the surface of
the water. He walked slowly back to his room, passing
the dive shop iler had mentioned. Its door was open,
the faint scent of salt and metal drifting out. Air
tanks stacked neatly along the wall. A small sign hung
in the window Morning tide, six thirty. He smiled to
himself and wrote the words in his note book. Later,
he sat on the balcony again. The moon rose over
the bay, pale and full and the water shimmered in
silver lines. Somewhere out there, beneath the surface, the caves waited.
He imagined the sound Ilah had described the breath of
the tide, slow and eternal, and felt a calm curiosity
replace the usual rush of his thoughts. He closed his
eyes and listened. Even above the gentle hum of the town,
he could almost hear it, the deep, rhythmic whisper of
water moving through stone, ancient and patient, calling him quietly
toward to morrow. The sun had barely risen when Ben
reached the pier. The air carried that soft, expectant quiet
that lives between night and day. The sea was a mirror,
broken only by the slow glide of a gull and
the faint wake of a boat moored near by. Ela
was already there, standing beside a small vessel with white
paint faded by salt and time. She greeted him with
a nod, her voice low and calm. You're on time,
she said, I didn't sleep much, Ben replied, smiling, too
many thoughts. Good, she said, the sea rewards people who
are awake to it. He helped her load the last
of the gear, a pair of tanks masks, fins, and
a small waterproof lantern. Then they pushed away from the pier.
The motor hum softly as the boat drifted toward the
open water. Behind them, the town faded into light haze,
and before them stretched the endless, moving blue of the Mediterranean.
The morning light turned the surface into shifting silk. Islah
guided the boat along the cliffs, pointing out small inlets
where the stone drops deeply into the sea. She spoke little,
but when she did, her words felt deliberate, shaped by
rhythm more than volume. The caves begin where the light ends,
she said. You'll see it when the color of the
water changes. That's how you know the sea is breathing. Below.
Ben looked over the edge of the boat. The water
was so clear he could see the patterns of light
moving across the rocks beneath. A slow pulse of color
passed through it, turquoise to blue, then to a darker
shade that felt almost alive. He felt a small thrill
of wonder. When they reached the cove, Ilah anchored the
boat and checked the gear. Follow my lead, she said,
stay close. The caves can feel endless, but they always
bring you back. He slipped into the water after her,
the first touch cool against his skin. The world above vanished.
The moment he submerged, light broke apart into ribbons, the
surface rippling above him like shifting glass. He could to
hear his own breath through the regulator, steady rhythmic, blending
with the soft roar of the sea around him. They
swam downward, following the gentle slope of the seabed. Fish
moved past in quiet flashes of silver and gold. The
water was warm, thick with sunlight, and for a time
Ben forgot everything except the beauty of movement. When Ayler
raised her hand, he stopped. She pointed ahead a wide
crack in the rock, where the light dimmed into deep
blue shadow. Together they entered the opening. The temperature dropped slightly,
and the light faded to a calm underwater dusk. Inside,
the water carried a faint vibration, like the hum of
something vast and ancient. Their lanterns flickered across smooth limestone
walls that shimme with a soft green glow. Bubbles rose
slowly toward the surface, scattering like small pieces of glass.
Ben's pole slowed. He realized that he wasn't afraid. There
was no sense of danger here, only quiet or He
followed Isler deeper through narrow passages that opened suddenly into
a chamber wide as a cathedral. The ceiling arched above
them in perfect stone curves, and the water was so
clear that their light seemed to float in air. Eyler
turned off her lantern. Darkness folded around them, yet it
wasn't complete. From somewhere unseen, faint strands of light shimmered
in the distance, tiny creatures glowing like drifting stars. And
then he heard it, a low, resonant tone that seemed
to come from the stone itself. It rose and fell
in slow rhythm, like breathing, the singing of the sea.
He looked at Aler. She met his eyes and nodded once,
her expression calm, reverent. They floated there for a long moment, motionless, listening.
Every sound, every ripple, every echo of their breath merged
with the music of the cave. It wasn't loud, but
it filled him completely. Something inside Ben loosened a weight
he hadn't realized. He carried deadlines, noise, the constant motion
of travel, All of it seemed to drift away, replaced
by the steady heartbeat of water and stone. When Issler
finally signaled to rise, he followed slowly. As they ascended,
the light grew stronger again, turning from deep blue to
gold as the sun reached higher outside. They broke the
surface near the mouth of the cave. Ben pulled off
his mask and took a long breath, the air warm
and sweet compared to the cool silence below. They climbed
back into the boat. Neither spoke for several minutes. The
only sound was a gentle lap of waves against the hull. Finally,
Ben said, it really does sing. Eila smiled faintly. Yes,
you just have to be quiet enough to hear it.
The boat drifted as he looked back toward the cliffs,
the cave now hidden beneath the surface. Once more, he
realized he didn't need to describe it for his readers.
Some things were better felt than written. For the first
time in years, he felt no urge to turn an
experience into words. As they returned to the harbor, sunlight
danced on the water like a thousand small fires. The
town came into view again, familiar and peaceful. Ben leaned
against the side of the boat, eyes half closed, the
rhythm of the engine blending with the pulse of the sea.
He thought of the cave's echo, the sound of stillness,
and felt something deep within him begin to rest. The
afternoon sun glowed high above the harbor. When they returned,
the water, calm and clear, shimmered as though the entire
bay had caught its breath. Ben stepped off the boat
with a strange stillness inside him, something quiet but alive.
He helped Isler carry the gear back to the small diving shop.
Neither spoke much. The silence between them wasn't empty. It
felt like part of what they had brought back from
the sea. Inside the shop, the air was cool and
smell faintly of salt and rubber. Ela rinsed the masks.
Her movements practiced and slow. You did well for a
first dive, she said. I didn't want to leave, he admitted.
She smiled the kind of smile that held understanding rather
than surprise. No one ever does. The caves remind people
how to listen again. Down there, You can't hurry, you breathe,
you wait, you feel that's all. Ben nodded. He remembered
the pulse of water, the hum that filled the stone chambers,
the faint light that moved like a heartbeat through the dark.
It was like time stopped. He said, Everything that usually
matters didn't exactly, she said, hanging the fins on the wall.
That's why I stay here above the surface. The world
is always loud, but the sea has no need for noise.
He watched her for a moment, the sunlight falling through
the doorway across her shoulders. There was something steady in
the way she moved, as if she had long ago
matched her rhythm to the tide. Later, Ben walked through
the village. The day was bright, the streets alive with
quiet joy. Children played with paper boats near the edge
of the harbor. The cafe owners chatted in doorways, and
somewhere a radio played a slow guitar tune. It all
felt lighter, as if the world had exhaled. He stopped
at the same cafe where he'd met Isler and ordered
a lemonade. The glass was cool in his hand, condensation
running down to the table. He opened his note book
but didn't write. For the first time in years, the
urge to capture a moment was gone. Instead, he simply
watched the water listening to the low, endless rhythm that
now felt like part of him. As the afternoon stretched
into evening, the colors of the harbor deepened, gold to amber,
amber to rose. He saw Esler walking along the pier,
her hair catching the light. She joined him at the
cafe without a word, sitting across from him in the shade.
Do you always return to the caves, he asked quietly, sometimes,
she said, When the world feels heavy, the sea reminds
me to be small again. He smiled at that small
feels good. For once. They sat together in easy silence,
the kind that doesn't need to fill itself. A breeze
moved through the street, carrying the scent of salt and
grilled fish from a nearby stall. The sound of waves
reached them even here, faint but steady. When twilight came,
the lamps along the harbor flickered on one by one,
small circles of golden light reflecting on the water. Isla
rose to leave tomorrow, she said, softly. The caves will
still sing, but they'll sound different. The tide always changes
the song. He nodded, understanding what she meant without needing
to ask. After she disappeared, into the narrow street. He
stayed for a while longer, letting the sound of the
sea fill the spaces her voice had left back in
his room. Ben stood at the balcony as night settled
over Porto Cristo. The light of the harbor shimmered below
like lanterns floating in black glass. He could still feel
the water on his skin, the pressure of the deep,
the calm that had followed him back to land. He
opened his note book and, for the first time in days,
began to write, not about beaches or travel or destinations,
but about silence and how the world sounds when you
finally stopped trying to name it. His handwriting slowed, softened.
Each line felt like a tide pulling gently back to shore.
He wrote until the ink began to fade in the
dim light, then set the pen aside. Outside, the waves
continued their quiet rhythm, unbothered by the parsing of time.
He leaned on the balcony rail, feeling the warmth of
the night air and the nearness of the sea somewhere
far below. He imagined the cave's breath in darkness, still singing,
the water moving through their stone hearts, and for the
first time in a long while, Ben didn't feel like
he was chasing a story. He felt like he was
part of One night returned to Porto Cristo with the
same gentle rhythm as the tide. The air was soft
and warm, carrying the scent of the sea in distant jasmine.
From his balcony, Ben watched the last colours fade from
the horizon. The sky deepened from gold to violet, then
to a quiet Endless blue lanterns flickered along the harbor,
their reflections trembling on the dark water like drifting fireflies.
He felt a calm, restlessness, the kind that asks not
for action but for presents. The village was quiet now,
Only the faint hum of the waves reached him through
the open window. He slipped on his sandals and walked outside,
following the narrow path toward the sea. The cobblestones were
still warm beneath his feet. He passed shuttered cafes, empty chairs,
and potted palms that swayed in the slow night breeze.
When he reached the pier, the sound of the water
grew fuller, each wave lifting and falling with perfect patience,
He walked to the end of the pier and sat down,
letting his feet hang just above the surface. The moon
hung low and pale above the cliffs. The sea stretched
out like glass, and somewhere beyond those cliffs, the caves waited, breathing,
singing in the dark. Ben closed his eyes. The echoes
of the day lingered behind his eyelids, Eylah's voice, the
glow of the underwater light, the heartbeat hum of the stone.
He felt as though part of him were still down there,
suspended in the cool, blue quiet where time had dissolved.
He listened. At first, there was only the hush of waves.
Then faintly he heard it again, the low, resonant tone
that seemed to rise through the water. It wasn't loud,
only steady, like the sound of air moving through a
hollow shell. It came and went in slow rhythm, each
pulse blending into the next, the song of the sea.
He smiled, barely aware of it, and breathed in the
salt air. Every inhale felt like it carried something familiar,
peace maybe, or gratitude. He thought of Isles's words, the
tide always changes the song. Tonight it sounded softer, slower,
almost like a lullaby. Behind him, The town lights glowed faintly.
He didn't turn to look. The sea was enough. It
felt alive, and he felt alive with it. He dipped
his fingers into the water, cool and smooth, and watched
the ripples spread outward until they disappeared into the dark.
When he finally stood to leave, the horizon had blurred
into the night sky. There was no clear line between
water and air, just one vast, quiet color. He walked
back through the sleeping streets, the sound of his footsteps
echoing softly between the walls. At the doorway of his room,
he paused to look once more at the harbor. The
boats swayed gently, their ropes creaking in rhythm with the tide.
Everything seemed to move together, the air, the water, even
his breath. He sat by the window and began to
write again, not for a story, but as a way
of listening. The words came slowly, shaped by stillness rather
than thought. The sea sings, and we learn its rhythm
by forgetting our own. He set the pen down and
let the quiet take over. Outside. The waves continued their
soft conversation with the shore. The night deepened, calm and endless,
somewhere beyond the cliffs, the hidden caves exhaled again, their
song rising faintly through the water, a sound meant not
to be remembered, but to be felt. Ben leaned back
in his chair, eyes half closed. The air was warm,
the sea alive, and the world finally at rest, And
in that stillness he drifted quietly towards sleep, as the
rhythm of the sea carried him home.
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