A Stroll at Sun and Moon Shells: An Encounter with the Sea, Shells, Dawn and Dusk

As the early morning sea mist lingered, I walked toward the Sun and Moon Shells, the cool sea breeze brushing against my skin. From a distance, the two white shell-shaped buildings seemed half-embedded in the blue-gray sea. The morning light spilled over their curved roofs, as if draping a thin veil over the soft shells—even the metallic sheen took on a gentle glow.

Walking slowly along the wooden boardwalk, I could hear the sound of waves lapping against the rocks, mingled with the aroma of lattes wafting from a café nearby. Occasionally, seagulls swooped low; in the moment their wings cut through the mist, it struck me how different this sea was from the one back home. It lacked the overwhelming grandeur I was used to; instead, it was like smoothly ironed silk, even its ripples carrying a delicate curve.

Up close, I noticed the shells’ surfaces weren’t smooth—they were made of countless small diamond-shaped panels fitted together. When sunlight filtered through the gaps, it cast dancing specks of light on the ground, like scattered shards of diamonds. I sat on a bench in the square, watching schoolchildren in uniforms chasing bubbles and elderly locals chatting in dialect. The wind carried a warm, salty tenderness, and even time seemed to slow down.

As evening fell, the Sun and Moon Shells lit up. Warm yellow light seeped through the gaps in the shells, gradually spreading into a soft halo. It merged with the pinkish-purple sunset glow on the horizon, while the sea glimmered with tiny points of light—hard to tell if they were starlight or lamplight. I pulled out my phone to take a photo, then put it back down. Some views, I thought, are better kept in the heart: the temperature of the sea breeze at this moment, the soft touch of the light on my face, and this quiet, unexpected sense of comfort that wrapped around me.