Kamon had taken the job on the pearl ship years before I had, but he didn’t intend to stay so long. He was right before me on the line, taking out the oysters and cleaning them with the square strip of metal he had. I couldn’t see him through the wooden walls, but I heard his voice, received the oysters he cleaned in tightly packaged boxes. I would open the oysters in the clamp and extract the pearls. While he hacked out the seaweed and barnacles, he would call to me. He always talked about how much he wanted to be famous.

“How about the saxophone?” he asked once. “You think you can get famous as a saxophonist?” I rarely indulged his ideas. I wanted to ask why he never pursued his dreams, why he never left the boat despite the fact he wanted to, but I didn’t. I think the pearl ship, the sound of the ocean and smell of oyster scum, was comforting to him. It was safe.

Eventually, Kamon got fired. The pearl ship switched to saltwater fish, allowing pools of them to clean the oysters instead. I thought it might be good for him to get out, to chase after his wildest ideas. Instead of leaving, he came to me, clutching his shoulder. It was nerve damage, from the constant motions of cleaning the oysters, the impact of steel against shell reverberating up his arm and permanently scarring his movement. He said there was nothing left for him. I didn’t know how to respond to that, watching him walk down the dock until he, a small dot on the horizon, disappeared.

On the table, the pearls of the day were still waiting for me, eternally there despite Kamon’s absence. I could see my reflections in them. I took the knife I used to cut the pearls out of the oyster flesh and put it to a large one, the white and shining blade cutting through the sea gem. In the centre was a grain of sand. It would always be there, no matter how many layers of pearl were put on top of it. A grain of sand, that was all it started as and all it would ever be.