The Ones Who Rise
They don’t need land.
They live best in the deep — in cities made of flowing tunnels and whispering machines. Machines that hum in the language of water itself.
But a few of them — not many — feel something else. A pull.
They drift upward. Slowly. Carefully. They rise through layers of pressure and memory.
And when they reach the surface, they wait for night.
The moon touches their skin. The air tastes strange. Their bodies adjust.
They walk, sometimes. Just for a little while.
Not far.
They leave trails of moisture, like fingerprints in reverse. They see the ruined coastlines, the empty buildings tangled in vines.
They don’t take anything.
They just… listen.
And every now and then, they find something in the sand.
A shape. A tool. A word.
The elders say:
“Don’t go too far. Don’t want too much. Remember what came before.”
But wanting is part of them now.
Not to conquer. Not to rebuild.
Just to understand.
And maybe, someday, to answer the question that still echoes beneath the waves:
Were we alone in our longing?
A Fool's Handbook 