Michael_Onimisi

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When Milo set sail, he wasn’t chasing adventure—he was chasing a memory.

Haunted by the loss of Eliora, the love he couldn’t save, Milo finds himself drawn into the heart of the Pacific Ocean, where reality warps, time blurs, and the past refuses to stay buried. Guided by a mysterious map and the lingering echo of a voice he thought he’d never hear again, Milo embarks on a journey through supernatural storms, forgotten islands, and visions that unravel everything he thought he understood about life, death, and love.

Once Upon the Pacific is a hauntingly poetic tale of grief, hope, and the secrets the sea keeps. A story where every wave carries a memory—and every tide, a choice.


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ONCE UPON THE PACIFIC (A journey through the forgotten tides)

The morning came in gray. No gold-streaked sunrise, no cheerful gulls dancing above the waves. Just fog, thick and heavy — curling like smoke over the sea, swallowing everything beyond arm's reach.

Milo rubbed his eyes, weary from a night of dreams that didn't feel like dreams. The journal now lay open beside him, unread lines appearing in faint script as though written by an invisible hand. He hadn't touched it.

> "Memory lives where silence lingers."

He snapped it shut. Either the tides were playing games with him, or grief had carved a hole deep enough for the impossible to crawl through.

They were walking through a coastal village in Morocco — a spontaneous trip Eliora insisted on.

"Let's get lost," she grinned, twirling in the street, the ocean breeze tugging her sundress. "Maybe that's the only way to find something real."

"You ever think you're too poetic for your own good?" Milo teased.

She turned to him, serious all of a sudden. "Poetry is just truth, dressed in emotion."

Back on the boat, he watched the fog thicken.

A faint figure. Standing. Still. Watching.

He climbed to the bow, adrenaline sharpening every sense. The compass, now completely still, glowed faintly blue. That had never happened before.

The journal flipped open again on its own. New words shimmered in the page's center:

Something pulled him to the edge. He stared into the cold, endless blue beneath the boat. The waters were calm now — eerily calm.

He didn't hesitate. He couldn't explain why.

The chill slammed into him, but he swam down, deeper and deeper, until light faded and darkness wrapped around him like a second skin.

A glowing orb. No, a memory. Playing out like a film beneath the surface:

He saw her — Eliora — in the midst of swirling water, hair flowing like ink, eyes open, lips moving.

Suddenly, hands grabbed him. Dragged him up.

He gasped for air as he surfaced, back on the deck, choking and shivering. But no one was there.

The sky was strangely violet. The stars were already visible, though it was barely midday.

And on the deck beside him, wet footprints. Bare, small — too small to be his.

Milo lit the lantern. Its flickering glow cast moving shadows. He studied the map, but the lines had changed. There was now an island circled in red — one that hadn't been there before.

He blinked. The ink pulsed for a moment, as if alive.

On the side of the lantern, something new had been etched. He leaned closer.

> "She's trying to save you, too."

What was this journey turning into?

And why did every piece feel like it had already been written — long before he ever stepped aboard?

The wind howled suddenly, slamming the cabin door shut.

And the last thing he heard before sleep dragged him under was Eliora's voice — not a scream, not a whisper.

Chapter Three A