Adam knelt on wet sand near the sparkling bay, lifting his grandmother's silver shell box. A wave slipped the tiny pearl from his fingers and pulled it into the foam. He snatched at empty water. His mouth dropped open as the pearl vanished.
Adam marched along the tide line, pressing his nose close to the sand. He turned over every pebble and driftwood scrap. Salt spray stung his cheeks and the wind tugged at his hair, but he refused to stop.
At the tidal pools, Adam bent knee-deep and peeked into every shadowed crevice. His shoulders began to sag. No pearl. Only wet stones and swaying seaweed.
A heron materialized at the water's edge, one leg lifted. Adam grabbed its attention with desperate waving. The heron tilted its head, spotted something, and plucked up a smooth white stone. Adam's jaw dropped. The heron trotted away.
Adam slid onto his back in the sand, arms splayed wide. The sky was too bright. The sea kept moving. Nothing he did brought it back.
A shadow swept overhead. Adam looked up just in time to see a seagull plummeting toward him, wings tucked and beak pointed down. He threw his hands up in alarm.
The bird landed with a soft thump and nudged a gleaming white pearl from its beak into Adam's trembling palm. He stared at it. Then he stared at the seagull.
Adam stared at the pearl, then at the seagull. The bird gave a loud squawk, flexed its wings, and launched itself into the air.
Adam walked back along the sandy path, the pearl clutched tight in his hand. The wind had gone quiet. Even the gulls were still.
His grandmother waited where they always met, the silver shell box resting against her hip. Adam held the pearl string into her open palm.
She traced the smooth pearl with her thumb and looked past Adam. There on the wooden pier railing sat the seagull. Her smile folded her face into happy lines.
The seagull tilted its head and let out a single satisfied caw.