I used to think the sea whispered, but now I know it's the shellfish doing all the talking.

They cling to rocks, piers, the underbellies of forgotten boats—mumbling secrets from the depths in a language we don't quite understand. You think they're just sitting there, doing nothing. But they're listening.

Have you ever cracked one open? Felt that strange pause before you eat, like you've interrupted something private? That's because you have. And in that silence, in that tiny, briny moment, they see you. They know you.

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You've been carrying their whispers in your stomach for years now. Digesting little pieces of their dreams. At first, it was just a taste—an odd thought here, a strange dream there. But soon, you'll hear the hum, feel the shift.

You've eaten more than you realize.