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)

Chapter Fourteen: The Voice Beneath the Tides

The horizon was nothing but haze. No birds, no wind—only the rhythm of water licking the sides of The Eliora like a lullaby with no end. Milo leaned over the railing, eyes scanning the endless blue, but it wasn't the sea he searched—it was the silence beneath it.

Eliora's voice still echoed in his mind.

"Let the ocean carry what you can't."

But it wasn't just memory. It was presence.

The kind of feeling that lived between waking and dreaming.

He stood there, still, as if waiting for something to rise from the deep.

The water shimmered—no, it glowed, faintly, with an almost imperceptible pulse like a heartbeat buried under miles of tide. Instruments in the cabin twitched and failed. The compass spun slowly, aimlessly. And for the first time, Milo noticed that the stars above were no longer familiar. Constellations had drifted, or maybe he had. Had he truly crossed into something… beyond?

The sky wept softly—not rain, but mist, thick and heavy. It clung to his skin, to the sails, to his thoughts.

Time no longer moved forward. It curled around him like the fog. Looping. Folding.

A low hum, like a thousand whispers caught in a conch shell. From below.

He whispered her name. "Eliora…"

Not in words—but in feeling. A pull. A presence that beckoned him to the helm. The map lay spread on the table, but new lines had formed—lines he hadn't drawn. They led to nowhere. Or everywhere. In the corner, beneath a tide-shaped symbol, a message pulsed faintly in glowing ink:

"Below lies what you left behind."

The fog thickened, and the ship began to turn, though no hand touched the wheel.

Below the surface, he felt her—not as a ghost, not as a dream—but as something eternal. The echo of love, of pain, of questions too big for time to answer. Was the sea truly a veil between worlds? Or was it a mirror to the soul?

The sea whispered again. Louder this time.

And when he opened them, the stars above had formed a ring.

The tides weren't just forgotten—they were alive.