I dreamed the oyster beds were singing

I was standing knee-deep in the tidal flat at low tide, but the water wasn’t cold—it was warm, like breath on skin. The shells weren’t just opening and closing; they were humming, not in unison, but in a kind of slow, overlapping prayer. I didn’t understand the words, but I knew it was about remembering. When I bent down to touch one, it whispered my name—just once—and then went silent. I woke up with salt on my lips, though I hadn’t been near the sea all night.