The Halloween Project 2026 – Story 5: “Hope Is Not the Absence of Tragedy”

“Hope? Hope is not the absence of tragedy, my friend. It is the conviction that tragedy can be endured." – Travis Beacham The low tide helped to reveal sea glass, yet it was still a painfully slow task, not arduous, but requiring patience and constant observation. The beach, replete with shells and small stones, hid its glass treasures well. A collector of such glass moved slowly, silently, a soft tread mirrored by the small waves that hurried in, one upon another.

“Always look on the upper side of rocks for the sea glass,” Ella used to say, she being gone a full ten years now. He could still feel her voice, almost hear it, perhaps saying, “Look at this piece!” or “The sun feels so good.”

It was October now, his favorite time of the year, and with the sun out, it did feel good, but you could sense the change of seasons. No other soul sat or walked or played on the beach today. It was his and his alone, save for his memories. The memories of Ella.

Charles chuckled as he found a nice, rather smallish, kelly green shard, not sharp but smooth-edged, being pushed and pulled through the surf. “Probably close to 5 years,” he thought aloud. His pocket abounded with sea glass. Root beer, of course, the most common color. And a selection of frosted white, several kelly green, one quite nice and fairly rare cobalt blue, a deep, rich color. And then he saw it.

The most exquisite piece of sea foam glass he had ever seen. Larger than most, it was a good two inches across, and its edges were smooth and rounded as a rubber ball. But the color was the most captivating. If you tried to describe it, one might say a pale green-blue, but that didn’t do it justice. Charles held it up to the sun to see the brilliant gleam pass through. He rubbed it between his fingers to siphon off the tiny clinging sand. The piece was exquisite, a rare find to add to his collection. He looked at it, rubbed it more, and placed it in his pocket.

A few more steps and he retrieved it, gazing at the glass long and hard.

And it began to warm. Not from his fingers but from inside the glass. It hummed. Not a song but a soft thrum like a lingering vibration from afar. Charles dropped the glass to the beach and stared from that distance. It looked again like a piece of spectacular sea glass, but nothing more. He picked it up and dropped it in his pocket.

Charles returned home and placed his small treasures in a clear glass basin. He carefully cataloged each piece. To encourage their deepest hues, he oiled and dried them carefully. Then he stepped back and admired his day’s finds. Finally, he carried them to one of his antique cut-glass bowls placed around the various rooms of the apartment and positioned them within.

All save the exquisite sea foam shard.

He picked it up gingerly. The glass almost seemed to glow from within, and the immediate sensation of a microscopic murmur emanated to his fingers. He palmed the glass and closed his fingers. The drone increased. It exhilarated yet frightened him. He knew there was no living part of this glass. No part that breathed or existed. It was glass, manufactured by man, baptized by the sea and the waves for years. This piece had spent at least 10 years in briny cascades.

He carried it to his bedroom, all the while the minuscule throb continued coursing through his hand. Charles set it on the night table next to his bed, a cornerstone to his books already piled there. He turned on the bedside lamp to encourage the glow. That evening, when he finally settled into bed, he kept the light on and once or twice in the darkest hours glanced at his beautiful sea glass.

Nearing dawn, a dream played its way into Charles’ sleep. It was the glass. The glass was speaking.

“Take me back to the sea. To the sea where I belong. Take me to the sea. And you come with me. Into the water.”

Upon awakening, Charles sat on the side of the bed gazing at the glass. He thought about the dream and reminded himself that dreams come from places untouchable through our waking thoughts. He touched the sea glass, and it vibrated.

And so it went, night after night, week after week, October turning to November. When the glass was touched, the thrum in his hand began immediately, the warmth, the calming vibration. When he slept, the dream came to him, sometimes stronger, sometimes only a hint. And then a change.

“Take me back to where I am free. Take me to the salty tumble of sand and shell and rock. Take me and join with me. Into the water. We can swim and roll. We can dance. And we can find Ella.”

That morning, as he did each morning, he sat and considered the dream. He contemplated the water and the waves, and he thought about Ella. He wasn’t lonely and he wasn’t afraid, and he made a decision. He dressed against the biting November wind, placed the sea foam glass in his pocket, and drove the short distance to the beach. Charles walked over the dunes and descended to the waterline with its waves, steady and stern.

He stood for a long time, then took a single step into the water. Then another step and another. The water crested his boots and filled them. The weight and chill of the water grabbed his feet and ankles. Another movement brought him knee-deep. He stood and reached for the glass in his pocket. His hand warmed immediately and a chirring whisper coursed through the glass. Charles took another step, now thigh-deep, his balance growing shaky.

No longer dreaming, now in his waking mind, he heard the glass say, “Take me home. Come with me. We will find Ella together. Both of us. All of us together. In the sea.”

Charles opened his palm and looked at the sea foam one last long time. Then he said, “You are beautiful and maybe someday, but not just yet. Not just yet.”

Then he raised his hand and, with a still sturdy arm, tossed the glass into the sea.