The Driftwood Dolphin
On the third morning of the October calm, when the bay lay flat as a windowpane and the gulls sat silent on the pilings, Tom found the carving. He had been walking the tide line since dawn, as he did every morning, collecting debris before it could foul the intake pipes. The beach was a catalog of small losses: a cork float painted with someone's initials, a broken oar wrapped in frayed rope,...
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