This story might never have been told.

  Like the memories—or the fate—of O, it could have been worn down into sand, buried forever at the bottom of the ocean. If not for a gluttonous giant fish, a storm that churned up the shore, a youth who loved collecting seashells, a pair of keen eyes, a generous heart, and a touch of O’s luck. Had all those things not occurred at the right moment, this story would never have found its way onto these pages.

  Countless truths have existed for ages, long before they ever met the eyes of humankind, and often in forms we would scarcely recognize. Like the waves O once counted in his years of boredom, they were always there, long before they broke upon the shore. Yet many dismiss such stories simply because they have never been retold or written. They trust only what they themselves have heard or read.

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  Countless stories in this realm have sunk into obscurity, with no one ever regarding them as real. Fortunately, O’s own stories were at long last penned by a kindly fellow.

  Before O begins recounting this long story, here is a small note: The scribe and the teller are not the same; and this peculiar storyteller prefers calling himself “O” instead of “I.”

  ~~~