Grandma left me one thing: a folded old map. At first it looked like junk. Then I saw the stars — tiny ones, drawn by hand. One marked the playground where I broke my arm at six. One marked the corner where my bike flipped. Every place I'd ever been hurt had a star. But there was one I'd never been: far out at sea, alone in the blue. What happened to me out there that I didn't remember?

Before chasing the sea, I searched Grandma's house. In her attic I found a locked tin box, and the key was taped under her old desk. Inside were letters, all addressed to me, all unsent. The top one was dated the year I was born.