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?

I had to know. I took the map to the harbor and showed it to old Captain Reyes, who'd known Grandma for years. He squinted at the sea star and went pale. 'I'll take you,' he said. 'But you should ask your mother first.' I didn't. We left at dawn.

Reyes told me a story as we sailed. When my mom was pregnant with me, she nearly drowned at this spot in a boating accident. 'You were almost lost before you were even born,' he said. 'Your grandmother marked it. To her, it was your first scar.' I sat back and let that sink in the whole way home.