That night, he dreamed of the water.
Ligaya laughed, the sound rusty but real. “Put it in the boat. That one buys your school books.”
She waited.
Ligaya ran.
By November, half the village was eating the strange tahong . They couldn’t help it. The normal beds had stopped producing, as if the sea had decided to give all its wealth to this single, trembling patch of water. The buyers didn’t ask questions. They saw the size, the weight, the way the shells caught the light, and they paid.
“The shells are talking,” he whispered.