Dry Dock Dirge

[Fingerpicked verse]

[A single acoustic guitar. Played badly on purpose—missed notes, buzzing frets, uneven tempo.] [The chord progression is simple: Em – C – G – D. But the guitarist's fingers slip.] [A string squeaks. A fret buzzes. It sounds like someone learning to play alone in the dark.]

[Hummed chorus]

[A voice enters. No words. Just humming.] [The melody is familiar—something like a sea shanty, but slowed down, emptied out.] [The hum is doubled with itself, slightly out of sync.] [Like two versions of the same person singing together.]

[The wave illusion]

[The humming continues.] [Beneath it, a sound grows: waves.] [Crashing. Rhythmic. The ocean, unmistakable. You lean in.]

[The reveal]

[The waves glitch. Stutter. Then reveal: it was never water.] [It's wind blowing over the mouth of a glass bottle.] [Recorded at 3 AM in an empty parking lot. The engineer's breath fogs the glass.]

[The hum stops. The guitar stops.]

[Then silence.]