The Sound in the Shell, page 8 of 12

From over his shoulder, Pip works down a long leaf filling with rows of marks, the small curled shell beside his elbow, late and intent.

He wrote it out the way he wrote tides, one line under another, until it balanced.

The doubled visits. The questions about his words for things. The three tides. Breathe out first.

Then, from years further down: a wet morning, a joke. What would you give. Everything, obviously.

He had been asked. He had answered. He initialled that too.

© 2026 A.J.Sharpe