Steve and Tank found the old trunk hidden under a pile of broken lawn chairs in Tank’s garage. It was heavy, metal, and covered in chipped green paint. “Whoa, what do you think is in it?” Steve asked. After a lot of tugging, the rusty latches finally gave way with a loud creeeak.
Inside, nestled on a faded red cloth, was a single, black conch shell. “A shell? That’s kind of lame,” Steve said. But when Tank lifted it, a faint, whispering sound filled the air. It was like a voice from another room. Steve leaned in. “It… it’s saying our names.” Tank’s hand trembled. He looked from the mysterious shell to his best friend. “Do you think we should listen?” he whispered, slowly raising the shell toward his ear.