The Sea Shell Seller

Chapter 4: The Shell Seller of Sarimanook

The voice was soft—almost lost in the breeze and bustle of the coastal street.

I turned.

Standing there in the middle of the chaos was a girl, maybe ten at most. Her clothes were ragged, her cheeks streaked with dirt and sea salt, but her eyes—one a striking emerald green, the other a pale, milky violet—caught the sunlight in a way that made me blink. Not just unusual. Mesmerizing.

Her hair, a pale red that shimmered like embers in the sun, was tied back in a messy braid.

"Would you like to buy some shells, po?" she asked, voice high and unsure.

I froze—not because of the question, but because of the "po." That was Tagalog. A Filipino honorific. Was it the bracelet again? Probably. Some kind of passive translation magic. Still, hearing it here, in this strange new world, knocked something loose in my chest.

She held out a small woven basket. Inside were delicate spiral shells with iridescent glints, sea-smoothed coral shaped like stars, and glassy chips that shimmered with sun-washed hues.

"Were you talking to me?" I asked, still blinking.

"Um… shells, po," she repeated, a little firmer this time. "Would you like… to buy some, po?"

A familiar ache spread through my chest. Sharp. Immediate. Like the ghost of jeepney fumes and the memory of kids weaving through traffic on EDSA, selling sampaguita garlands with tired eyes and hopeful voices.

Different world. Same gut punch.

"Maybe I should get one," I said softly. Gentler than I intended. "How much?"

Her eyes widened. "Th-three… um…" She hesitated, knuckles white on the basket's handle. "Two Tanso! Just two! Po?"

That po again. So polite. So desperate.

I hesitated—not out of stinginess, just stunned—and her face crumpled like a kicked tin can.

"I-Is that too much? I can do one Tanso—"

"Whoa, whoa, nene," I chuckled, raising both hands. "Easy. I'm not haggling, promise."

I wasn't just buying a shell. I was buying back the confidence in her voice.

"I'll take that spiral one," I said, pointing. "The one that looks like a storm curled up for a nap."

"Th-three Tanso?" she whispered, cheeks blooming red.

"Three's what you said first, right? Let's call it a bravery bonus."

Because in Pasig, three pesos gets you a pack of candy from the sari-sari. But here, it looked like it meant survival.

"Are you sure, po?" she asked, voice trembling with disbelief.

"Sure." I paused, then added, "Although… if you think that's too generous, maybe throw in a little information?"

"Information?" she asked, blinking. Confusion replaced the fear.

"Yeah. Like… what's your name?"

She hesitated for a beat, then smiled—a slow, shy thing that peeked through like the sun after a storm.

"Marikit Santos, po… sir."

Oof. Nope.

"You can drop the 'sir,'" I winced. "That makes me feel like I'm about to give a pop quiz. How about Kuya? That's what we call older brothers where I'm from."

She tilted her head, curious. "Kuya…?"

"Yeah. Still respectful, but friendlier. Not so formal. Less 'math teacher,' more 'big bro.'"

Another shy smile. "Okay. Nice to meet you, Kuya Pepito."

Progress.

I took the shell she offered. Warm from the sun, smooth as glass, and it smelled faintly of salt… and something else. Something clean. Calming. Like Lola's altar back home—rosary beads, a bowl of water, and a scallop shell by the window.

I dropped three Tanso into her tiny hand.

"Okay, Marie," I said. "Next question. Judging by my extremely touristy outfit," I tugged my hoodie sleeve, "I clearly have no idea where I am. Can you help a lost traveler out?"

"Ohhh…" she said seriously, like I'd just confessed to forgetting my homework on Mars. "Okay. I can do that!"

And she did.

This was Sarimanook—a bustling coastal port near the border of the Gloriam Kingdom.

The economy? Absolutely unforgiving.

One Ginto = 100 Pilak.

One Pilak = 100 Tanso.

Most folks, she explained, were lucky to earn 10 Pilak a month.

Ten Pilak. One thousand Tanso. That's just thirty-three Tanso a day.

Less than what I'd just handed her for a single shell.

I looked down at the coin pouch tied to my belt. Inside was thirty-one Pilak—everything I had left from my severance pay at the call center.

All those graveyard shifts, spilled coffees, irate customers demanding refunds for things they broke themselves… all of it boiled down to this pouch.

And now? I was in a place where one Pilak could buy a week's worth of dried fish and rice, or a month's supply of instant noodles and cough syrup.

It made me feel like I wasn't just a little well-off.

I was walking bait.

"How many days in a month here?" I asked.

"Thirty. Twelve months. Plus two festival days. One for Sarimanook's founding, and one for remembering the dearly departed."

"Three hundred sixty-two days," I muttered. Close enough to feel familiar. Just weird enough to keep me uneasy.

"What about the market?" I asked.

"You can sell there," she said. "You just need to register at the town hall and pay a small fee."

My mind raced. I could register. Set up shop. Sell solar lamps. Toothpaste. Maybe painkillers and instant oatmeal. Stuff people needed. The basics.

But then I looked at her again.

At the basket. At her tiny, callused fingers gripping the handle like it was all she had.

My business plan suddenly felt… cheap.

"Hey, Marie," I said gently. "Can I buy some more?"

She blinked. "Huh? More po?"

"About ten. A nice bundle. I want to make a small altar where I'm staying. One shell looks too lonely."

She tilted her head, studying me… then nodded. A quiet understanding passed between us.

I picked out ten more—striped ones, pink-edged ones, some glossy with mother-of-pearl—and handed her thirty Tanso.

The coins clinked in her small palm, heavy with promise.

"That's… that's so many coins, po," she whispered. Her eyes shimmered like tide pools at dusk. "Thank you, po… Kuya Pepito."

She wiped a tear before it could fall, then let out a sudden giggle. High-pitched, surprised, full of something real.

Joy.

It hit me in the chest like a crashing wave. For a moment, it knocked the cynicism clean out of me.

"Need anything else, Kuya?" she asked, still smiling.

"Actually, yeah. That town hall registry?"

"I'll take you!" she said proudly, straightening like a junior barangay captain. "This way, po!"

And just like that, she led the way—skipping ahead with a confidence that didn't match her ragged shoes, but outshone the sun anyway.

The bracelet buzzed softly. Not an alert. Not a warning.

Just a gentle warmth. Like approval.

Maybe this was its true purpose. Not guiding me to some chosen destiny or epic prophecy, but toward the small kindnesses that hold a world together.

So I followed my tiny, seashell-selling guide.

With the sound of ocean memories in my pocket—

—and something unexpected blooming in my chest.

Hope.