The stone was the color of a Caribbean dream—a soft, milky blue with white wisps like clouds frozen in a calm sky. Lily Larimar had held it for so long that its surface was warm against her palm. She was eighteen today, and the stone was the only inheritance from the grandmother she never met.
“Okay,” she said to the horizon. “Show me.” lily larimar 18
“They call it the Atlantis stone,” her mother used to say. “Legend says the sea let it go after thousands of years. It remembers the waves.” The stone was the color of a Caribbean