Morecambe Bay does not look like it is waiting for anything.
That is the first mistake people make.
We crossed near Arnside when the tide was already far out, the mudflats stretching so wide they seemed to have forgotten where water belonged.
Jack checked the guide again.
“We’ve got time,” he said.
The stones began after that.
Not arranged. Not placed. Just… present in a line that curved gently across the exposed bay.
Esmeralda stopped walking.
“Those weren’t there yesterday,” she said.
Twinkles crouched beside one. It was smooth, damp, and slightly warmer than it should have been.
There were marks on it. Not carved letters, but impressions—like something had been pressing numbers into the stone from the inside.
One of them shifted.
Not moved.
Shifted.
As if it had just been used.
Jack stepped back. “We should go.”
But the line of stones extended further out across the bay, disappearing into the mist where land became uncertain.
And for a moment, it felt like they were counting something that hadn’t finished happening yet.
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