What Can Only Be Heard
A sea-born wind fills your nostrils as you stroll the perimeter of the water. You can't spend much time in this town, but the meeting ended at just the right time for you to see some local sights. The town's width only goes from where the sand meets the water to the back of the boardwalk buildings, but the length packs in too many curiosities to visit in a week, let alone a day. One building catches your eye, though. At the end of the beach, a couple of concrete building blocks built to be bigger than the other attractions in town. You squint to read the sign in front.
Sand City Phonaquarium
You quicken your pace, the density of people increasing. You apologize to nameless visitors as you squirm and shove past them. The line in seems to move quick, but the talking is reaching a singularity of noise. Squawking seagulls to the left, crashing waves to the right, indistinct chatter all around. You cover your ears, but nothing can stop the commotion. The last person in front of you enters the building, and a lady holding the door gives a small smile as you scamper inside.
You open the door.
The door closes behind you. In front of you, a crowd stands silent in front of an empty tank. Not a hint of conversation, not a taste of movement from within the tank. Your attempts to move closer are impeded by statuesque spectators, so your glimpse into the water is foggy. Still, whatever the visitors are looking so fondly is seemingly nonexistent. You close your eyes, still tired from the outside noise. All you can do is listen.
You listen closely.
Something's circling around you. You can't see it, but you can feel it. The tale of this "something" paddles back and forth, creating ripples in the air, bouncing off of your skin. It whizzes around you, gradually decreasing the radius of its path. It's going, going, going going. It turns. It zooms into you.
You open your eyes. Not only is there no creature to be seen, but
