The sun had set on this side of the ocean. Here, we didn't have beaches or sand. Instead, cracked clam shells piled on the shore. The shards tumbled up the bank as the waves rolled in before settling back onto themselves, wet and exhausted. It was a full moon; the white light reflected in their saucered mouths.

 

We sat at the edge of the water. We were old enough to wander, but not old enough to know where. It was as if time collected, thickened, and dripped off our backs. We loved the beach for that reason. The tide came in. The tide went out. We passed through the days. The days passed through us.

 

We spent many lazy summer nights on this beach, watching the world fall asleep.

 

​Tonight, they came from the edge of the dock. Slick black shells hid their scurrying legs, making it seem like they were gliding out of the water. They came in hordes. Delicate gills undulated with every breath, unfurling like the bellows of an accordion.

 

The horseshoe crabs were the unknown keepers of the ocean. They survived, unchanged for over three hundred million years, calm and quiet on the shores. To think, even the Earth would be unrecognizable from that distant age. Yet, they were the same, blowing bubbles and lying in wait.

 

The crabs fanned out on the beach like black lily pads. We became unwitting observers, peeking into their sacred ritual. It hit us suddenly. Looking at them was like looking at the stars—both were reflections of the past. They were living fossils. Time really had stopped with them.

 

We rested our heads on each other's shoulders. We listened to the sound of the waves, the sound of our breathing. We would leave in a few minutes or hours, or even in the morning. We would close our eyes, fall into an unwitting sleep, and they would be gone—disappearing as silently as they came, back into shallow waters.