[Verse 1] The sea does not open like a door. It remembers being struck. I have learned the dates by heart, the careful voices, the words that meant necessary. Nothing arrives all at once. Even this has been rehearsing for years. The horizon loosens its hold. Something stands where standing was never agreed upon. Not anger. Not judgment. A body that has nowhere to go without breaking what it touches. [Chorus] There is only one— not because we needed him, but because we made no room for more. Singular as a consequence, unanswered as a bell rung underwater. Do not ask what he wants. Ask what kept repeating until the world replied. [Verse 2] The city practices its small alarms. Glass learns again how to be brief. People look upward the way we do when the story has already turned and we are still hoping for revision. He does not search. He does not choose. Streets were never part of the design. Neither were prayers once they learned to split atoms. [Chorus] There is only one— alone in the way scars are alone, no companionable edge, no return. We named it progress. We named it distance. Now it has mass, now it moves. [Bridge] If loneliness lives here it is not the kind that asks. It is pressure without outlet, time folded into muscle. If he roars, it is not to be heard— it is to remain intact. [Verse 3] I will not call him monster. That word pretends separation. I will not call him god. That word forgives too quickly. He is memory that survived the water, the last witness to a sentence we never finished saying aloud. [Final Chorus] There is only one— and he carries no future, only the present enlarged until it can no longer be ignored. Stand still. Do not look for mercy. This is not punishment. This is recognition finally tall enough to cast a shadow. [Outro] The sea closes, as it always does. Noise settles. And somewhere beneath the sound a quieter truth remains: Nothing here was sudden. Nothing here is personal. What walks ashore was always waiting for us to stop pretending we were alone.
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