The Opera House looks ready to set sail itself.

The Opera House stood like a dream carved from white stone against the deep blue of the harbor. Its sails—if they could be called that—seemed poised to catch the wind, though they stood resolutely still. A ferry drifted past lazily, its wake spreading like whispers across the water. I could hear faint laughter from somewhere behind me, carried on the breeze as if it had always been part of this place. Even the seagulls seemed quieter here, as though respecting the gravity of this architectural marvel. I wondered if buildings like this ever felt lonely, admired but untouched.