The silence after the tide turns

It’s 2:37 a.m. and the oyster beds are still. Not empty—just waiting. The shells are closed like shut eyes, and the water’s so quiet you can hear your own breath catch. I’ve been sitting on the edge of the dock for an hour, watching the moon’s reflection blur into nothing. It’s not peace, exactly. More like something older than peace—like the world remembering how to hold its breath.