Every morning before the sun fully kissed the horizon, Leo slipped into the sea. The village still slept, wrapped in dreams, but Leo found his awakening in the gentle rhythm of the ocean. The water was cool and quiet, a glassy expanse tinted with the first blush of dawn. It was his sanctuary, his ritual, his freedom. Leo had always felt more at home in the water than on land. As a child, he would sneak away from chores just to float beneath the waves, watching the world ripple around him. Now, years older, he still chased that same peace. This morning, the tide was calm. He dove deep, feeling the salty embrace of the sea wrap around him. Schools of tiny silver fish shimmered past, and rays of sunlight pierced the surface above like golden spears. Down here, there were no voices, no noise — only breath, heartbeat, and the pull of the current. He surfaced slowly, the cool air hitting his face as he broke through. The sky had turned to watercolor — pink, orange, and gold bleeding into each other. He floated on his back, staring up at the canvas above, letting the morning soak into his skin. There was something sacred about these moments. Before the day could touch him, before the world asked anything of him, Leo swam. It wasn’t just exercise. It was escape. It was prayer. Back on shore, footprints marked his path in the sand. Soon he would return to them, return to the noise of life. But not yet. In the quiet hush of morning, Leo belonged to the sea.
