To Whoever Finds This, We didn’t mean to become myth. Just people, waiting too long for the tide to roll back. The water came like a conversation no one wanted to have— first in the gutters, then in the living rooms, then in our lungs. We made flags from emergency blankets, the kind meant for warmth not waving, but silver catches light better than surrender. Our rafts were palettes. We tied them together with garden hose and the cords from broken chargers. Some of us sang. Some just watched the horizon like it might apologize. We write our names on driftwood. Leave stories tucked in tidepools. Anchor memories to the stars that still bother showing up. If you read this, know we were here. Know we tried. —From the ones who built boats out of leftovers