The tide’s always coming back

I stood at the edge of the oyster bed just before dawn, shell fragments crunching under my boots. The water was so still it looked like glass, and for a moment I thought the whole thing was suspended—like the world had paused to remember what it was supposed to be. Then a single ripple broke the surface, and I knew: it wasn’t waiting for me. It never does. Just another day of listening to something older than belief.