Once, when the world was younger, and the sea whispered secrets to the wind, there stood a house on the edge of the rocky Taranaki coast. Its timeworn walls, gray as the stormy waves, bore witness to countless sunrises and tempests. Blue skies stretched above, cradling memories within their cerulean embrace. The house had known laughter—the echo of children chasing seagulls across the pebbled shore. It had felt the warmth of hearth fires, flickering like ancient constellations. Generations had woven their lives into its splintered beams. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the kitchen, mingling with salt air. Summers were a symphony of barefoot dances, and winters whispered tales of shipwrecks and lost souls. Now, the house stood alone, its windows like vacant eyes gazing out to sea. The roof sagged, weary from the weight of memories. Seaweed clung to the doorstep, a fragile welcome for ghosts who returned to trace their footsteps. Visitors passing by would pause, sensing the melancholy. They’d wonder about the family that once laughed here, the lovers who carved their initials into driftwood. And perhaps, if they listened closely, they’d hear the faint strains of a forgotten lullaby. The house was more than wood and nails; it was a vessel for time. A sentinel against the relentless tides, it held the past in its weathered bones. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden net upon the waves, the house whispered: “Remember us. Remember the love that danced within these walls. We are the keepers of stories, the guardians of dreams. And though we stand alone, we are never truly abandoned.” And so, the old house clung to the cliff’s edge, its heartache etched into every splinter. Blue skies wept for what once was, and the sea murmured its elegy—a haunting melody that echoed across the ages.