The shell is not empty, it never was. It’s rotting from within. On the outside, it looks untouched, almost new, but inside, it burns. It’s been burning for years, choked by its own smoke, the fumes stain its walls and blur its sight. The shell is no longer whole. It’s cracking. And it will break, of course it will. It’s not strong enough to stand alone. It hides beneath the stones or at least clings to them. But the stones are cold. They crush the shell without mercy, they break it, push it away. Still, the shell doesn’t move. It doesn’t know how or if it even should. That pitiful, pale shell, rotting from the inside out. It has nothing left to offer. Just look at it, lying there alone beneath the sun, soaking in the light, yet with nothing left to warm. Alone, cursed, waiting for the strike of the first gull who sees it as easy prey. But even he will be deceived. Tossed aside, flung to the other end of the shore and still, somehow, the shell will keep its head on its shoulders.