The sea was the colour of pewter that morning, and it sang the whole time I walked. Not loudly. The way you hum to a child without quite meaning to — half a song, trailing off, picked up again.
I came home with a pocketful of pebbles and a single piece of sea glass, worn soft, the colour of a wave just before it breaks — that pale, bottled green that is almost grey, and somehow the exact colour of calm.
It is in a piece now, that scrap of glass, held in a thin loop of silver so it can still catch the light. When I wear it I can hear the morning again.
This is really all the brand is: a way to keep small mornings, and to pass them to you. Every stone came home from somewhere quiet.