In the places where memory runs thin and the sea’s voice slips between the ribs, certain murmurs rise unbidden.
These are the Ghost Entries— faint impressions of half-remembered depths, carried by wind, water, and the things that dwell in the luminous dark between tides.
Each visit reveals a new whisper. Some are omens. Some are warnings. A scarce few are coordinates.
Not all whispers come from the drowned. Some are older than that— older than lanterns, older than rope, older even than the shapes we now call “beasts.”
Should any whisper repeat, heed it carefully. Repetition in the Vein is never accident.