I didn’t come to Hatteras for anything in particular. That’s what I told myself. Just a drive. Just a day. Just a stretch of road where the signal would thin and the sky would widen.

The tide was out when I arrived. The flats spread wide and silver, channels running patterns I couldn’t read. I took off my shoes. The sand swallowed my feet in soft increments.

A willet stepped aside as I passed. Not alarmed. Just adjusting.

I found a whelk shell whole and unbroken. I slipped it into my pocket without thinking. A pelican dove offshore with a committed splash that carried farther than expected.

I sat down, waiting for something important to come to mind. Nothing did. I watched a ghost crab emerge, sprint, vanish. The entire act took seconds. I watched it happen again.

A dolphin surfaced once in the fading light—brief arc, then water closing.

The sky shifted into colors that don’t name easily. The beach cooled beneath me.

I reached into my pocket and felt the shell. I stood, walked to the waterline, and set it back down where the tide would find it.

The drive home was quiet. Bridge lights stretched across the sound in long ribbons. I didn’t turn on music.

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