The Glass of Coral Light

The asphalt breathes a cold dampness, smelling of salt and engine oil. Ahead, the coastal road crests, flat gray in the half-light. I find a photograph face down near the curb; the image captures a moment in July, but I see the corner of my shoulder, a ghost shape against the wet backdrop. Tucked beside the picture is a piece of polished jade, cool to the weight, a specific deep emerald color. I lift it; the jade feels necessary, a necessary weight. Inside the house, a window pane displays maple leaves yellow and red, though the calendar reads November. The house has no discernible seasons. I trace the edge of the jade with my thumb, a careful, persistent movement, watching the distant lighthouse flash a pattern that repeats, a single, slow rhythm against the rising, empty sea.