The net came up light again this morning, full of jellyfish and silence. Twenty years ago, we’d have thrown back the undersized fish; now we keep anything that twitches. One of the boys found a plastic bottle sealed tight with a note inside — looked like a kid’s handwriting, probably from the port school’s “message to the sea” project. I told him to leave it. Some things shouldn’t be answered. The sun rose pink and indifferent, same as always, and we drank our coffee like we’d earned it, which we had. A few tourists up on the hill probably snapped pictures, calling it magic. Let them.
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