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.

I read the letters in order, all night. They told the story of every star — the broken arm, the bike, the scraped knees — and how she'd watched over me through each one. The last letter ended mid-sentence about the sea star: 'The truth about that one is buried in the—'

Buried in the garden, under her favorite rose bush, I found a waterproof pouch. Inside was a newspaper clipping: a baby rescued from a sinking ferry at sea, decades ago. The baby was Grandma. The sea star wasn't my wound at all — it was hers, the day the sea nearly took her.