I’ve always thought
stones held secrets—
pressed one to my ear
like a seashell, but quieter,
waiting for its sound
to rise through my fingers.

They’ve been here longer than us,
I figured,
so they must know
what we’ve forgotten.
“Paint your name on a rock,” I said once,
to a friend who laughed,
called me strange,
but still brushed his letters on stone,
tossing it in like a dare.

I followed with my own—
silent hope
wrapped around its smooth face,
wondering if the ocean would read it
or just swallow it whole.

Years later, I’m here again—
another stone,
another story.
“You still listening?”
someone asks.

I shrug,
smiling,
before the stone meets the waves.

“Maybe.
Or maybe it’s all in there
waiting for someone else
to find the message.”