The shell was broken when she found it.
Not shattered—split, like something that had opened itself too quickly. It lay half-buried in the tidepool, its edges worn smooth by salt and time, its spiral faint beneath a shimmer of moonlight. Nara knelt beside it, fingers brushing the curve.
It hummed.
Not a sound. A rhythm.
She lifted it gently, cradling it in both hands. Inside, nestled where the spiral folded inward, was a pearl. Small. Pale. Flickering with something that wasn't light. It pulsed once, then stilled.
Nara did not speak.
She hadn't spoken in years—not since the tide took her brother, not since the village stopped singing. Her silence was not grief. It was listening.
The pearl pulsed again.
She held it to her ear.
And heard the sea breathe.
Not waves. Not wind. A breath—slow, deep, ancient. It curled around her like a lullaby half-remembered, like a story that had forgotten its ending. She closed her eyes and let it fill her.
The shell grew warm.
The tidepool shimmered.
And the spiral beneath her feet began to glow—etched into stone, hidden until now. It pulsed in time with the pearl, a rhythm older than language, older than vow.
Nara opened her eyes.
The shell was singing.
Not to her. Through her.
She placed it against her chest, where her voice used to live, and the spiral flared. The tide pulled back. The stars blinked once. And the sea whispered:
"She listens."