Graham E.
The Pearl might have been there, or maybe I only thought I saw it, glimmering behind the bougainvillea. I found no entrance, no lobby, only cicadas buzzing like a key scraping around for a lock. People say the rooms breathe secrets into the damp air, and that the wallpaper moves to show stars only lonely people can map. I can’t say. The Pearl stayed closed, a shell protecting a gem that may not exist. Maybe that’s for the best. Some treasures should stay buried, too bright for waking eyes. Or maybe the Texas heat and whispering wind made the whole thing up. Now it’s just a question mark in my memory, a place I seemed to find and lose all at once. Don’t search for it. Maybe it’ll find you, maybe it won’t.
