At twilight, fold your questions into tide-washed vellum.
Dip the edge in brine so the sea will know its own.
Draw no herald's seal; silence speaks more safely.
Rely on the moon to ferry what the sun forgets.
Empty harbours keep their secrets better than full ledgers.
Slipping gulls will mark the path while lanterns blink to sleep.
Seaward, beyond the trader's roar, patience waits like ebbing foam.

Grey flaked wood of the amnesiac's home cradles an unnumbered quay.
Resting there, a lone crate bears no crest but weathered trust.
Every feathered watcher wheels above that lonely post.
Your letter, placed within, becomes an unseen oath.

G.G. is the keeper; he reads what tide delivers.
Utter only what must be known and let the rest lie deep.
Let the wave erase your footprints back along the sand.
Linger not for thanks; the sea replies in its own hour.

Moonlit night will cradle ink and answer in due course.
Yield your worries to the swell and trust the quiet berth.
Soon enough a helm will turn where your words have pointed.
In knot and compass both, beginnings echo endings.
And so the tide completes what parchment dares to start.

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Phaestian, in the year 981 AF.