Eleven is not round. It resets no clock. It carries the weight of what came before: ten perfect collapses, ten white petals unfolding on gravel, ten sighs of foam. And then — one more. Not for completion. For insistence.

— where sequence becomes sensation, and the sea finally speaks in odd numbers.

To count waves is to admit you are listening. To name the eleventh is to say: I am still here.