The cove was everything Máire had promised. Pink shells scattered across the grey sand like dropped coins, clustered in the tide pools, and wedged between rocks where the current pushed them. Oisín crouched at the waterline, letting the cold foam wash over his boots, and picked through the offerings one by one.

  Six. He’d found six good ones so far, and he needed at least a dozen. Halfway there, and the light was good. The tide was low for the next few hours, and for the first time all week, he felt like the project might actually work.

  The waves crashed steadily against the rocks. The gulls screamed at each other overhead, fighting over something dead in the shallows. Between the two, the world was a wall of noise. He barely heard himself think.

  He reached for another shell. It was pale pink, spiral intact, and the shine still visible on the inside. That’s when the world lurched.

  Not an earthquake, not a wave knocking him off balance, but something different. It spread through the ground beneath his feet. A rainbow sheen enveloped him. His vision smeared at the edges. His stomach rose into his throat, and it felt like the world tipped over. He was upside down, but his boots were firmly planted to the roof of the world. Then the whole thing tipped again, and he was right side up.

  He fell forward onto his hands, gasping, and for a moment, the beach wasn’t there at all. Just light and pressure and a sound like the sky tearing open.

  Then it stopped.

  He stayed on his hands and knees, breathing hard, and waiting for the vertigo to pass. The sand was cold and wet beneath his palms. The waves still crashed. The gulls still screamed.

  When he finally looked up, everything was the same.

  Almost.

  The shells. The ones he’d already picked up, the six he’d tucked into his pocket, they were scattered on the sand in front of him. The same shells. The same positions. As if he’d never touched them.

  He sat back on his heels and stared.

  Maybe he’d dropped them when he fell. Maybe the vertigo had…

  No, they were in his pocket.

  His fingers counted them slowly, one to six.

  These were new. Shells that hadn’t been there a second ago, now waiting to be found again.

  Oisín picked them up. Turning each one over. Then he kept going and picked three more. Finally, enough to complete the project. All he needed was a fishing line. His father had plenty of those, and some refashioned hooks.

  Oisín grinned as he tucked the last one into his pocket. The vertigo had been strange. He had spent enough time on boats to think he was past that by now. He’d have to ask his father if something odd had happened with the tide, but he felt fine now. Better than fine. He had what he needed, and the day was still young.

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  The walk back along the beach was easy. The waves had settled, the gulls had moved on to bother someone else, and he had time to stop by the bakery before heading home. Maybe he’d say something clever. Something that hinted at the gift without giving it away. He practiced a few lines in his head and discarded all of them as too obvious.

  He rounded the outcropping where the cove met the main beach and saw two figures near the waterline.

  One had its back to him. Tall, broad, wearing dark armor that caught no light. Something about the shape was wrong. Both the proportions and the way it stood, but Oisín couldn’t see clearly from this distance.

  The other was a woman. Black hair, pale skin, and barefoot in the sand. She was facing his direction, and as he passed, she looked right at him.

  She winked.

  Oisín walked faster. He didn’t know who they were. He didn’t want to know. The shells clicked together in his pocket, and he focused on that sound, on the path ahead, on the village waiting over the next rise.

  The village looked the same as it always did. Stone cottages, fishing boats, and nets hung to dry. Smoke curled from chimneys. A few faces turned his way as he passed, but he didn’t pay them much attention. His mind was on the bakery.

  The bell chimed as he pushed open the door, and Máire looked up from behind the counter. Same red hair, same freckles, and same green eyes.

  No recognition in them. None at all.

  “Can I help you?” she asked with a pleasant smile.

  Oisín’s smile faltered. “It’s me.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s…” He laughed, waiting for her to break, to admit the joke. She didn’t. “Máire, it’s Oisín.”

  Her brow furrowed. She looked at him the way you’d look at a stranger who’d wandered in speaking a language you didn’t understand.

  “I don’t... I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  The ground shifted again. Not vertigo this time. Like a bad joke in a nightmare.

  “Oisín,” he said again, like repeating it would make it true. “Cormac’s son. We walked back together two days ago, you told me about the cove…”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  A voice from the back room. The heavy footsteps of Máire’s father. The baker emerged, flour on his hands, and stopped when he saw Oisín’s face.

  “What’s this about Cormac?” he asked.

  “I’m his son.” Oisín’s voice sounded strange in his own ears. Too high, too desperate. “I live in the cottage by the water. The one with the nets outside. I’ve lived here my whole life.”

  The baker and his daughter exchanged a look. The kind of look that said they were dealing with someone unwell.

  “Lad,” the baker said slowly, “there was a Cormac who lived in that cottage. Years ago. He had a son named Oisín.”

  “That’s me.”

  “As best we can tell, that boy died.” The baker’s voice was not unkind, but it was final. “Fifteen years past. Mauled by a dog on the beach when he was just a wee thing. Cormac left on his fishing boat with the child to find help, but never came back. Neither of them did.”

  The shells in Oisín’s pocket suddenly weighed nothing at all.

  “The cottage has been empty ever since,” Máire said quietly. “No one lives there. No one has for as long as I can remember.”

  Oisín felt like the fish his father pulled up in his nets. His mouth was open, and all he could do was gasp.

  He turned and walked out of the bakery. The bell chimed behind him, cheerful and wrong.

  The cottage was exactly where it should be, but there were no nets. When he pushed open the door, the air inside was cold and stale. Dust covered everything. The hearth was dark. The bed was stripped. His father’s chair sat empty by a fire that hadn’t been lit in years.

  A crowd was gathering behind him, outside the hut. Oisín stood in the doorway of a life that didn’t exist anymore and wished someone would throw him back in the water.