The Echo Pearl of Brinebridge

The bell over the bakery door jingles as you shoulder a sack of flour across to the big wooden table. The air is warm and sweet. You dust the board, make a well in the mound, and pour in water. Your palms press and fold, press and fold, until the dough turns smooth and springy under your fingers. Outside, gulls argue, a bright chorus over Brinebridge Harbor. The boats sit like sleepy cats in their slips, tails of rope flicking against pilings.

You are ten and strong from lifting trays. Your apron is flour-dusted. Your hair smells like cinnamon. The morning rush is coming, but it feels like your own corner of the world for now. You look up at the clock. Fifteen minutes until first customers.

The back door creaks. Old Otis slips in, carrying a wooden box full of tinkering bits. He lives near the boatyard and claims he can fix anything with wire and patience. His beard is salt and silver, and his eyes are the color of bottle glass. He sets the box down, and something inside clacks.

'Brought a helper for you,' he says. He opens the lid. A tiny metal crab climbs out, each leg tapping with a faint tick. Its shell is a patchwork of polished copper. Two round lenses blink like cheerful eyes. It raises a pincer and waits.

'Click,' you say, grinning. The little crab makes its name sound in reply. It scuttles onto your wrist and settles there as if you were a rock warmed by sun.

Otis wipes his hands. 'He still flickers a bit. Do not worry. He is good with gentle light, good with shallow water, and even better with company. If you take him down to the tide pools later, let me know how his glow looks.'

You nod. Your heart gives an odd skip. You have spent so many mornings hearing fishermen swap stories. Old songs about a place under the harbor where stories curl in shells, humming to those who listen. Your grandmother would sometimes hum a tune with no words and say, One day you will hear what the sea keeps.

The bell jingles again. First customers. You slip trays into the oven and fill a basket with buns. Click balances there, raising his pincer like a parade flag. The smell of baking wraps around you. Butter. Sugar. Warmth. You carry the basket toward the door and pause. Beyond the glass, a horn blares. A shape the size of a small house moves into the harbor channel.

You can step outside with the basket to see what the noise is, or hand the tray to Otis and look through the back alley toward the docks. Do you watch from the doorway, or do you run to the pier to get a closer look?