We showed the photograph to restaurant servers, shopkeepers, street artists, and vendors along the market.
Most shook their heads.
A few stared at the photograph for an unusually long time before saying they could not help.
By late afternoon, exhaustion began replacing hope.
I sat on a bench near the boardwalk and watched waves break against the shore.
For the first time since arriving, I wondered whether we should stop.
Then I heard Noah shout my name.
The Seashells With Six Names
He was standing inside a small market stall filled with handmade jewelry, painted driftwood, and decorated seashells.
An elderly woman with silver hair and paint-covered fingers held Noah’s phone close to her face.
“Yes,” she said as I approached. “I know her.”
My heart began pounding.
“She comes here regularly,” the woman continued. “Very kind. She often orders engraved seashells.”
“What does she have engraved?” Noah asked.
