This morning the seashell shop on the corner set out a tray of tickets no larger than a fingernail. Nobody was sure who they were for until a little wave, still damp from the display bowl, took one and waited its turn.
We asked at the kiosk. “The surf used to all speak at once,” said the keeper, polishing a scallop as if it were a teacup. “Now they take a number. Hold the shell to your ear and you get one whisper. Not a whole weather report. Just enough to know the water is glad you came.”
A neighbor had been sure the shells were going quiet. By evening it was only that the waves had learned to nod first. A regular came back the next day with the same scallop and said the second whisper was a little warmer, as if the tide had saved him a seat.