Sarah found the pebble on the beach. It was the colour of shaken clouds. She put it in her pocket, took it home, settled it on her bedside table, and went to sleep. In the morning, the pebble had grown – it filled her hands. It was as cool as wind shadows. She held it to her ear, but heard only stone quiet.
She put the pebble in her bag and went to school. All day, through her drab lessons, while the teacher droned sums and grammar, the pebble swelled. By home time, it stuck out off her bag. She lugged it home, sat it on her bedroom chair, and ran her fingers on its markings; they felt smooth as silence. That night, she fell asleep gazing at its shadow.
As she slept, it grew. When she woke, her room smelled of whale sounds. The pebble almost filled the floor. Tip-toeing around it, she squeezed into a corner and leaned against it. Suddenly, it began to crack. The top fell off and a sea billowed out. Her room flooded. She clambered into the pebble’s shell as waves shattered her window. The sea soared over her town. She floated beneath salt skies past the horizon.